


Unmasked

by hannahmerp88



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/M, Female John Watson, Female Protagonist, Male Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-11-06 04:42:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 36,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17933039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahmerp88/pseuds/hannahmerp88
Summary: Follows the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Jane Watson as their relationship develops as they solve mysteries throughout London and beyond. As they fight through Serial Killers, Murderers, and Con men, will their delicately balanced life come crumbling to pieces?





	1. Book I: Three Way Murder

**Author's Note:**

> I DO NOT own any of BBC's characters along with Arthur Conan Doyle's ideas. Don't sue me.

Jane’s POV  


It was hard to believe that I’d agreed to move into the flat after I killed someone. I’d barely even been a day, not even a week. The gun now sat in a drawer in my room, somewhat neglected. The kettle on the stove began to whistle and I got up from my chair. I poured the steaming water into a cup, pulling out the tea bags I let one settle to the bottom. I brought the cup back to my chair and pulled out the newspaper. Politics, more politics. I read the news anyways, it wouldn’t do me much good if I didn’t know what was going on in the world. Sherlock walked into the room, his robe trailing on the floor. I looked up at him and he sat down in his chair across from mine. I scanned him over while he didn’t spare me a glance. I picked up a spoon and stirred my cup a little, the tea almost ready. Sherlock rose and went into the kitchen. I heard the fridge door open and little glasses clinking together. He marched back into the room, a vile filled with fingernails floating in some strange liquid. I was almost used to it, the random things that I found in the fridge and cupboards. Sherlock came over and picked up my teacup, quickly downing it before setting it back down.  


“You know, you could make your own.” I said. Standing up and taking the cup.  


“Pardon?” He asked.  


“The tea. The kettle is still on the stove, you could’ve made your own.” I pointed out, making my way back to the kitchen.  


“Oh, was that yours?”  


“Yes.” I said, looking back at him. He cocked his head in mock disappointment, his expressions staying the same.  


“Oops.” He muttered. I turned back around and went back into the kitchen, setting the cup in the sink. A mound of dishes were beginning to pile up in the sink. He wasn’t sorry and for someone as observant as he was, he seemed to miss the small, insignificant things. Like the earth rotating around the sun. I laughed to myself, picking up the kettle. The water was already cold and I poured it down the drain, putting the tea bags away. There wouldn’t be any more tea this morning I thought, disappointed. I passed Sherlock as he examined the fingernails, mumbling something about how long it takes them to blacken. I walked up the stairs to my room. My cane still sat to my bed, though each day I found it easier to get up and move without it. I guess it was a psychological injury. At least somewhat. I hadn’t had a panic attack in a while. Where I thought I would be nervous looking at a dead body, I found a strange confidence and strength. It was both scary and enlightening, it has been a while since I felt that I was useful.  
It didn’t take long for us to be called for a case. I was sorting through my things when Sherlock yelled from downstairs.  


“Watson! Grab your coat, we’re leaving!” He yelled up. I grabbed my coat from a chair, pulling my arms through it. I dashed down the stairs and slipped my feet into a pair of flats. Sherlock was already outside, trying to hail a cab. After a second of waving his hand, he gave up, moving further down the street. I brought my hand to my lips and let out a whistle. A cab pulled up by the curb and I slid into it, calling Sherlock over. He got into the cab and gave them the address to an apartment. When we arrived, police tape lined the street. Sherlock got out of the cab and I handed the driver a note, apologizing for Sherlock leaving so suddenly. I jogged to catch up with him and raised up the police tape to get into the scene. Lestrade stood next to the door and held it open for Sherlock, nodding to me before we headed inside.  


“We got a call when the lady who cleans the apartment found a body inside. Neighbors said they didn’t hear much of anything and that the victim usually kept to herself.” Lestrade reported. I went through the facts that I knew in my head. Lestrade pulled up the police tape, holding it up for me and Sherlock to duck under. We made our way into the apartment. It was up on the second floor, the windows were still bolted shut and there was a bold scuff mark on the door. The woman was laying on a decorative rug in the middle of the lounge. Her blood was dried around her and her neck had been lacerated. A knife was lying not far away, blood coating up to the handle. Sherlock bent over the body, examining the clothes and hair.  


“Middle aged woman, living alone because she considers herself a working woman.” He muttered. He moved over to a desk, stacks of letters and papers cluttering the entire surface. “Been considering a different job or moving.” He picked up one of the letters and balanced it in his hand. “What was her name?” He asked, turning to Lestrade.  


“Martha Winthrop.” Lestrade answered, looking over a file. Sherlock turned over the letter, looking at the address.  


“Family trouble. They all do.” He said. I moved closer to the body. The neck was cut open in many places, the cuts were rough and tore open all the muscles. I turned to the knife, looking it over without touching it. It’s stainless steel hilt was covered in dry blood, the blade covered in blood and had pieces of skin hanging off it. I didn’t gag, not even reeling. I looked over the blade one more time.  


“This wasn’t the knife the murderer used.” I said. Sherlock and Lestrade both turned to me before Sherlock moved forward to examine it.  


“What do you mean?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock looked over the knife and then back at the body.  


“Cuts are too jagged and uneven to have been made my a non-serrated knife such as this. This knife is used to cut slabs of meat.” He paused. “A boyfriend.” He whispered.  


“What?” I asked, staring at him. A boyfriend?  


“A boyfriend. The woman had a male friend that would come over. Quite frequently actually.” He said. I looked over the room.  


“Male shirt, the mantle has pictures of her with a man that’s not her husband or a sibling.” I said. Looking over at some of the things thrown around the apartment.  


“Brilliant.” Lestrade said, looking at Sherlock. I shrunk a little inside myself. “At least it would be if we hadn’t already caught him.” He said. Sherlock spun around.  


“Then why are we here?” He said, looking very pointedly at him.  


“I wanted you to see the crime scene first, the only problem is that we have three guys all confessing to her murder.”  


“Three?”  



	2. Book I: Three Way Murder

We walked back down the stairs and into another abandoned apartment. The walls and set up were the same as the last one and as we entered I immediately scanned the room. Three men were sitting on chairs, their hands cuffed behind them. Several officers walked around the room and one came over and handed Lestrade a file. He pointed to the first one.  


“Jamie James Chapman.” He said. “Goes by Jimmy, 29 years old. Works as a assistant at Chapman Law Firm. It’s owned by his brother, Taurus Chapman.” Jimmy smiled as his name and occupation were listed. His eyes flicking over Sherlock and I, eventually resting on me. The second man didn’t look up when he was called. “Oscar Brady. 38 years old. Worked as a physician at Asda. Recently fired for tampering with someone's medication.” Lestrade moved to the last man, who had been staring at the door ever since it opened. “Landon Ewan. 20 years old. Works as a personal fitness trainer. He’s the boyfriend.” Lestrade closed the files, looking each man over. Sherlock stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back.  


“So, Mr. Chapman.” He said. “What is your connection to the young dead lady up stairs?” I inwardly rolled my eyes. Jimmy looked at him and licked his lips.  


“Well, Ms. Winthrop was having some family problems after her father died and came over to my brothers law-firm to get help getting some of her dads things.” He licked his lips again. “My brother didn’t have time to help her, so I told her I would. I continued to help her try to come get some of what her father left her.” Sherlock looked him over. Scanning fingernails, bits of hair, how the very dust settled around him.  


“You said she came on a Thursday?” Sherlock asked. Jimmy nodded a couple time.  


“Yes, yes she did.” He responded. I shook my head. Criminals were so stupid.  


“Actually, you didn’t.” I said. “You never mentioned Thursday.” Jimmy looked at me, his brown eyes boring into mine.  


“I already confessed!!” He said. “I did it! Ms. Winthrop inherited a large amount of money and I wanted some if it. She refused to pay me since I was helping her on the side! So I killed her!” His outburst caused the others to glare at him, the other man then pointing out that he didn’t kill them, they did. Lestrade threw his hands in the air.  


“See?!” He said. Sherlock moved on to the next man.  


“And what’s your story?” He asked. Oscar Brady picked up his head for the first time and looked at us.  


“I was fired from my job at Asda after I tampered with some medication. I learned that she inherited money when she came to pick up some medication.”  


“What was her medicine for?” Sherlock interrupted. Oscar didn’t even blink.  


“Her medication? She was on antidepressants.” He said. Sherlock nodded for him to continue. “So I added it so that her dose would be somewhat lethal. I hoped she would die, and I could just come and take stuff from her apartment. When I thought her dose would be enough to kill her, or at least incapacitate her, I came to get the money. I discovered she hadn’t been taking her medicine, and I was caught. So I killed her.”  


“Did you now?” Sherlock asked him. Giving him one more once over before moving onto Landon Ewan. “And you?”  
Landon gulped, pulling his eyes from the door and to Sherlock's face. 

“I mean… we were dating. It wasn’t all that serious, but after she got all that money from her dad…” He stopped and licked his lips. His eyes locked with mine and while he was talking with Sherlock, his eyes stayed glued to mine. “She was going to dump me for someone richer than I am. I make good money, and I was scared of her leaving me. After she tried to dump me, we had an argument. I killed her.” Sherlock stood and looked over each man. They all looked guilty to me. The signs were all there. Flicking eyes, licking lips, stories that don’t all match.  


“And none of you worked with the other?” I asked, stepping forward. They looked back and forth at each other.  


“Never seen him in my life.”  


“No. No one else knew.”  


“Nope.” They answered.  


“So which is guilty?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock turned towards the door, his face a mask. I fell into step behind him as he left the room. Lestrade followed. “Sherlock? Come on, you must have some idea!” He said.  


“All of them are guilty.” He said.  


“Pardon?” Lestrade said, jogging slightly to match Sherlocks long strides.  


“They all are guilty and each story has a bit of truth, none of them committed this murder.” He said. Sherlock swept out of the apartment and out into the street to hail a taxi. I turned to Lestrade.  


“He’s going to want the recordings of the confessions and the files they have them. If you could drop them by the flat later, it would be much appreciated.” I told him. He nodded his head.  


“Watson!” Sherlock yelled, a taxi pulled up and he held the door open. I jogged over the taxi and waved to Lestrade once, trying to give him a comforting smile as we left.  



	3. Book I: Three Way Murder

It took too long for Lestrade to come by with the tapes. Around lunch, I heated up some food and sat on the sofa and ate, watching Sherlock pace back and forth waiting.  


“I wouldn’t eat that if I were you.” Sherlock said. I looked down at the food and up at him.  


“Why’s that?” I asked, grabbing my fork.  


“Well, you weren’t planning on eating all that food and you don’t like those noodles. Isn’t it around the time you take your medication? Though, you haven’t been taking it for several days…”  


“Don’t deduce me.” I said. Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and looked at me. I could already see him struggling to not put all the pieces together. I stabbed some pasta and began to chew. I realized that I indeed did not like these noodles and hadn’t realized the brand when I grabbed them. I glared over at Sherlock and he smirked back and began to pace again. He sat in his chair and froze. The doorbell buzzed and I got up from my chair. I scooped the noodles into the garbage bin and smoothed out some of the wrinkles in my shirt. I opened the door and Anderson stood in the foyer.  


“Oh.” I said. “I was expecting Greg.” Anderson looked around the flat and handed my a heavy envelope.  


“On a first name basis are we?” He asked.  


“Shut it Anderson.” I said. I opened the envelope and looked at the files inside, a couple of recorders laying at the bottom.  


“Where’s the crazy?” He asked, looking up the stairs and into the part of the flat you could see through the cracked door.  


“In the flat.” I said. I rolled up the top of the envelope and turned to walk back up the stairs. Anderson climbed the first step.  


“I don’t need to do a sweep do I?” He asked. I gave him a pointed look. Ever since I had moved in to the flat with Sherlock, he kept wanting to do drug checks. It was as if everyone wanted to prove to me how bad of a person Sherlock was.  


“No. I’ll tell you if I ever find anything.” I said. I walked back up the stairs. The moment the door swung open, Sherlock plucked the envelope from my fingers. “Hey.” I said, following him back into the living area. Sherlock took the bag and dumped it out on top of the desk. The recorder thumped against my laptop. I sighed. “You could have at least come and helped me with Anderson.” I said.  


“I’d rather not engage myself with that incompetent fool.” He said, not looking up from the file.  


“Still.” I grumbled, pulling out a newspaper from the basket on the floor. It wasn’t a current newspaper. Maybe a year old or so. Sherlock liked to keep old newspapers though most of them ended up cut up into clippings for a case. Sherlock grabbed the pictures from each suspect and put them on the wall. He pointed at them.  


“We need to connect each man to a different individual murder. Something that at least partially matches the story they gave. Then we need to find the real murderer.” He said.  


“They’re all real murderers.” I responded, not looking up from the paper.  


“Well I know that, and you know perfectly well what I mean.” He snapped. I folded up the paper and grabbed the laptop.  


“I’ll start with Landon Ewan.” I said. I picked up the recorder and the file with his name on it and flipped open the computer. I immediately surfed the web, putting his name into social media forums. Many pages came up, being a personal fitness trainer made him very popular. Sherlock didn’t move from where he was staring at the images. His eyes flicking from face to face.  


“Landon and Martha started dating about 5 months ago, about two weeks before her dad died. He died of Lung cancer and was in the hospital for a while. Landon was her fitness trainer for a while before they dated. No boyfriend before that.” I reported, sorting through Landons social media profile. “Strange thing is, Landon hasn’t posted a thing about the two of them. No pictures, no dates. She’s only in one photo from their first date.” I said. Sherlock turned and plucked the computer from my hand, scanning the image.  


“He said he killed her for her money and he was afraid that she would dump him. Try the name Jenny Harrow.” He said. I learned not to question him, and typed the name in.  


“Jenny Harrow. 20 years old and still in college. Studying Liberal Arts at Canon University. Dropped out a few months ago. Parents filed a report that she was missing around the time she dropped out. Police wrote it off when they found all of her belongings in her apartment.” I listed. I clicked on the news from the week of Jenny’s disappearance. Sherlock tapped his fingers and turned back to the pictures.  


“Landon must be connected to her disappearance. Watson, go back to the station and speak to him. Ask him from anything he knows about Miss Jenny. Also, ask Mr. Brady about his mother.” He said. I stood and walked over to the door. I tucked my blue blouse into my pants and slipped my flats back onto my feet. I threw my jacket on.  


“Fine. I’ll let you think. Contact me if you come up with anything else.” I left the flat. I was used to following orders, doing what people wanted me to. The Army left that imprint on you even once your done. The scars never leave you. I hailed a taxi and made my way back to the station were they’d brought the suspects. I made my way into the cell that Landon was staying in. A guard was facing him and stayed next to the door. I immediately scanned the room, identifying possible weapons and escape roots. Another habit left over from the army. I didn’t sit even though there was a seat at the other side of the table I clasped my wrists behind my back. His eyes immediately locked with mine and I steeled myself.  


“I have a few questions to ask you if you don’t mind.” I told him.  


“Where’s your boyfriend?” He asked.  


“He’s not my boyfriend.” I said. Why does everyone think that?  


“He was very observant one. Though, I don’t understand why you haven’t moved me into the big hall. I already confessed.” He said.  


“Yes, but you confessed to a murder that wasn’t the one that happened today.” I told him. He leaned back in his chair and gave me a once over.  


“So what do you have to ask me?” He asked me.  


“You’re going to tell me everything you know about Jenny Harrow.” I told him. I didn’t bother asking it as a question. It tended to make people think that they didn’t have to answer. Landon paled a little.  


“Jenny?” He asked. He would have run his hand through his hair if his hands hadn’t been cuffed. “What about Jenny?” He asked.  


“Anything.” I said. He looked around the room, now avoiding anything but my eyes. I might not be as good as Sherlock, but I knew he was nervous.  


“We dated for a while before she dropped college.” He said.  


“Did you have anything to do with it?”  


“With what?”  


“With her dropping out of college.” I responded. He shook his head.  


“No, she was getting kind of bored and had mentioned wanting to travel the world. I guess she did since she just up and left.”  


“All her possessions including her passport were found in her apartment.” I told him.  


“Oh.” He muttered. What kind of boyfriend wouldn’t be a part of the investigation of their lovers disappearance? He wasn’t even listed under the prime suspect list or even mentioned in the articles about Jenny Harrow. I frowned, and my phone began to buzz in my pocket. I picked it up.  


“Hello?”  


“Found anything?” Sherlock’s voice rang out on the other end. I held up a finger to Landon, letting him know I was going to be a minute.  


“Nothing much. Didn’t know about the passports or anything.” I told him, glancing over at Landon.  


“Strange. Any boyfriend would’ve been involved in the investigation. That’s besides the point, I found Miss Jenny Harrows body, now we need him to confess.” He told me.  


“You found a body!?” I whisper screamed into the phone. “Where the hell are you?!”  


“Near the Thames River. Nice little dump for murders.” He stated. I sighed.  


“So what do I do?” I asked.  


“Beat it out of him, out think him. I don’t know, just get him to confess.” He said, and hung up the phone. I sighed. Interrogation never was my strong suit. I decided to sit down. The chair scraped on the floor, drawing his attention back to me.  


“So, you confess to a murder you didn’t commit for what reason? To cover another murder?” I asked.  


“I did murder her, I already confessed to that.” He said.  


“No. You murdered Jenny Harrow before she planned to leave you.” I told him. His eyes flicked around.  


“No. No. I didn’t. Jenny disappeared. I had nothing to do with it.” He stuttered.  


“What kind of boyfriend isn’t up to date with the investigation. Because you knew she wasn’t coming back.”  


“I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t kill Jenny, I killed Martha.” He said. I slammed a fist on the table.  


“Don’t lie to my face. Admit it. You killed Jenny Harrow in cold blood.”  


“I...I did.” He stumbled. I sat back down, satisfied. His cocky nature replaced by fear. I tucked a lock of honey blonde hair behind my ear. He began to cry a little, his guilt seeping out.  


“Now. Where’s the weapon.” I asked.  


“I used a Glock 19. I put it in the neighbors rose bushes so that it wouldn’t come back to me.”  


“And the body?”  


“In the Thames River.”  


“You didn’t dispose of it yourself, did you.” sighed.  


“No. I couldn’t stand looking at it. I hired another guy to do it for me.” He told me. I stood up, and moved towards the door. I turned to the guard who’d barely moved the whole time.  


“Tell Lestrade to pull back up the case of Jenny Harrow. Her murderer’s right here.” I told him. I walked out and nodded goodbye to Landon who suddenly looked tired. “I have one more to talk to.”  



	4. Book I: Three Way Murder

I ended up making my way home instead of meeting with Oscar Brady. It was already late and I picked up some take-out on the way back. By the time I made my way back the sky was darkening. I pushed my key into the door and it swung open. I dropped the bag of food on the counter and pulled out a plate. I heated up my portion before moving to the living room.  


“Your food is on the counter.” I said. I shoveled the food into my mouth, realizing that I didn’t have lunch or a real breakfast. I flipped on the small T.V to the news. A reporter stood in front of the station and was mid-sentence.  


“... done it again. After receiving a case with three suspects, the great Sherlock Holmes matched one man to a murder that happened four months ago and was closed by local police. Landon Chapman murdered his girlfriend after she planned on leaving the country. He will be in court the next couple of days and will undoubtedly be spending time in prison.” He reported. I flipped the T.V off.  


“The great Sherlock Holmes…” I muttered. It was funny how people get overlooked though I was kind of used to it. Another face in the crowd, another goldfish.  


“Pardon?” Sherlock said.  


“Oh, the news is praising you for solving the murder of Jenny Harrow.” I told him.  


“I guess I did.” He said, turning back to the case.  


“And it’s not like you had help or anything.” I grumbled, eating more food.  


“Well really, I found the body. You got him to admit it was him.”  


“Did you find the gun?” I asked.  


“Yes, under a rose bush in the neighbors garden. Obviously an ametuer. He left fingerprints on it.” He joked, laughing to himself.  


“Well. Another criminal caught. What would the world do without you?” I joked.  


“Fall into disarray no doubt.” He answered. He tapped the picture of Oscar Brady. “Mother died to natural causes two months ago. Was a pharmacist. Claims Martha took antidepressants but takes them himself. Antidepressants can cause agitation and extreme mood changes.”  


“They also can cause disorientation and anxiety.” I added. He nodded.  


“Mother also took medication, though not antidepressants. Got it from the son, who got a discount for the medication. Being disoriented and experiencing violent mood changes, he changes the medication. Eventually leading to the Mothers death. It was over such a large period of time it’s classified as natural causes.” He said. I picked up my phone and texted Lestrade.  


“It’s strange.” I said.  


“What is?” Sherlock asked.  


“We get called to a murder, and several people confess. All of them end up confessing to a completely different murder. That must be some severe guilt, and why not turn themselves in instead of making us solve it?” I stated.  


“The higher the tower, the greater the fall thereof.” Sherlock said.  


“What?” I asked.  


“Nothing. We still have to solve the murder plus figure out what Jamie Chapmans part was.” He told me.  


“His brothers law firm was sued last week. They were demanding more profit and upping the cost of their attorneys.” I said, searching for the corresponding newspaper.  


“Why would they be sued for that? Don’t hire them.” He pointed out.  


“They upped it in the middle of a case and asked to be paid more.”  


“What case was it?” He asked. I pulled out the newspaper and flipped open to the article.  


“Ferril Family organising family funds after the sister accused the brother of stealing part of her inheritance. No murder, but the family went bankrupt after the brother revealed he was being blackmailed.” I told him.  


“Close enough.” Sherlock said. I texted Lestrade one more time. I went upstairs. I changed out khakis and by button down into a tank top and cotton pants. I threw my clothes into the laundry and hung the newly pressed shirts into my closet. I’d have to remember to thank Mrs. Hudson later. I slipped into my bed and grabbed a book from my desk. I flipped the alarm clock on, and double checked that my gun was still where I left it. I stayed up a while longer, reading and listening to the floors creak. Sherlock was pacing again, then he’d stop and all would go silent for a bit before the pacing began again. Eventually the night grew late and I flipped my light off, sinking into the comforter and hoping the dreams stayed away.


	5. Book I: Three Way Murder

The dreams didn’t stay away and when the alarm clock went off, I blinked a few tears from my eyes. It was getting better, less nights that I woke up screaming, thinking I was dying. I got up from bed and threw on some shorts and another tank top. I slid socks on my feet and was out the door. Ever since my legs were better I’d tried to get into a habit of running every morning. It was difficult, but I was still in good shape. I ran along the parts and the river and watched as the city began to wake, blinking the sleep from it’s eyes. I made my way back to the flat and still didn’t hear Sherlock. I got in the shower and washed my hair, pulling it back into a thick bun. I made my way down stair and made myself tea. I found Sherlock sitting in his chair, staring off into space. 

“We need more milk.” I said. No response. I peered around the corner if the kitchen. “Did you solve it?” No response. I sighed. It was strange when he did this, getting stuck inside that head of his. I drank my tea and grabbed a couple of crackers from the cupboard. I opened the drawer and pulled out my wallet, double checking that I had cash. “I’m heading out.” I called. No answer. Typical. I made my way down to the grocery store and grabbed the necessities. I thought about texting Sherlock to see what he wanted but I knew he wasn’t going to answer. I lugged the bags back to the flat and fumbled to get my key to the flat. I walked up the stairs and kicked the door open, knowing that Sherlock never locked it. Sherlock was speaking to a client when I walked in. 

“Watson! Where were you?” He said, throwing up his arms. 

“I went to re-stock. I told you that before I left.” I said. Sherlock blinked a couple of times and the women sitting in the client's chair stared at me. 

“Are you the housekeeper?” She asked. I dropped the bags onto the counter. 

“Housekeeper? Who ever got that funny idea into your head? I work with him.” I stated. I shoved the milk and eggs into the fridge. 

“Oh. So you work closely with each other?” She asked. I rolled my eyes and let Sherlock answer. 

“Rather closely. Jane helps me with some of my cases.” He explained. 

“Well, I don’t know what help she could be. I’ve read all about it in your blog.” She said. It was Sherlock's turn to be annoyed. 

“It’s not my blog. It’s Watson’s.” He said. “It’s completely incompetent and pointless.” 

“I think it’s lovely.” She said. I smiled, having won the silent competition over the blog again. Sherlock looked over at the woman. 

“Your husband is having an affair with the secretary at work and is going to leave you rather soon. I would clean your house, if anything you need a housekeeper.” He said. He went on and told her about all the secrets in her life. She was wide eyed and gaping by the time he was done. She got up and shook his hand fervently. 

“Wow. You really are a genius. I mean, I read about you in the paper, but I had to. I had to come and see if you’re really as great as you say. You know what, I’ll even stop reading your blog since you don’t like to so much. I’m going to have to do that. Wow… the real Sherlock Holmes…” She rambled on as she walked out the door. 

“Great. You just lost me a reader.” I said. 

“It’s fine. I doubt your blog will suffer for it.” He commented. 

“Not if she reports it.” 

“Oh. She was an innocent reporter. Didn’t even know how to pretend to have a case.” 

“So why did you let her in?” 

“I was bored.” He said. 

“Of course you were bored. Did you even bother to solve the three way murder?” I asked, mentally jogging that down as a potential title. 

“Yes. I already contacted Lestrade. Now I just need something else to do.” He said. We took cases all day, most of which Sherlock solved from out flat. I listened, made comments, and sometimes wrote things down. By dinner, I made Sherlock eat, shoving a plate of food into his hands. I sat down and began to write my blog. The Three Way Murder. I talked about what had happened, though when I got to the interrogation, I ultimately ended up replacing myself with Sherlock. Sherlock found the body, Sherlock did the interrogation, Sherlock solved the mystery. I asked Sherlock about details I didn’t remember. Names, ages, places. I knew he’d remember. 

“Your writing style is very peculiar.” He noted when reading part of it over. 

“Why’s that?” I asked. 

“You completely replace yourself. No one ever talks to you, you never do anything. You narrate like a ghost.” A shiver made its way down my spine. 

“Well, I never do much in the cases.” I said. “You solve the mystery, you get the credit.” 

“Yes, but I would be lost without my housekeeper.” He smirked. I glared at him before smiling. I posted the blog online and close the laptop. I was satisfied to see that Sherlock had actually eaten something, though he spread the leftovers around. I put the plate in the sink and made my way up the stairs to my room, skipping over the creaking one. I crawled back into bed and thought about what Sherlock had said. Narrating like a ghost. The room got colder and I pulled the blanket more closely around me. Ghosts. The next case I would assert myself. The next case I would be a little bit more that a housekeeper, but a companion. With those thoughts, I drifted off to sleep.


	6. Book II: Not Scared

Sherlocks POV  


The doorbell rang. Again. I didn’t even have to guess who it was and simply waited for him to come in. I knew he would. He wasn’t one to wait to be invited into someone else's home. The door swung open almost on que and Mycroft came waltzing in. He looked around the room, inspecting for anything out of the ordinary. He paused a second, looking at the new bullet holes I put in the wall.  


“And what might those be from?” He asked, giving me a strained smile.  


“Bored.” I said, going back to microscope. He glanced around one more time and pulled a package from under his arm.  


“Give this to Ms. Watson will you?” He asked, setting on the corner of the table.  


“Why don’t you do it yourself.” I told him.  


“Because she’s not here.” He told me, as if I didn’t already knew. It wasn’t uncommon for her to disappear and I would find myself speaking to thin air.  


“Well, she is now.” I said. A second after I heard the door to the lobby of the flat open and the sound of bags hitting the floor as she set them down to close the door behind her. A moment later the door to the flat swung open to reveal Jane standing there, her arms full of grocery bags. She pushed through the door and made her way into the kitchen. She glanced once at Mycroft, just a slight flicker of her eyes, before disregarding him. She did that often, giving people the once over to access weakness. It was an interesting little quirk I had found and I found myself trying to deduce the rest. I restrained myself and turned back to the microscope. She dumped the bags on the floor and opened the fridge.  


“Thanks for your help.” She said sarcastically, tucking a hair that's fallen out of her ponytail behind her ear. I knew she didn’t need the help and ignoring her, Mycroft spoke.  


“Didn’t you just go shopping three days ago?” He asked. I glanced up. He was watching us again. Typical.  


“Yes, but Sherlock put some chemical in the fridge and everything went sour.” She replied not missing a beat. Mycroft looked around once more.  


“Well. I’ll be going now.” He said, and walked out the door. Jane bent down and loaded the fridge with jugs of milk, rearranging some of the chemicals I had in bottles in jars. She turned and looked at him as he left. I swept the chemical off the tray of the microscope and held it up to the light.  


“What did he want this time?” She asked. I’d almost become a ritual that Mycroft would show up.  


“Brought you a package.” I told her. She moved over and pulled a pocket knife from her pants pocket. She slid the knife across the opening and pulled out a book and a folder. She set the book down and opened the folder. She read a little before holding it out for me. I didn’t immediately respond and after a second she just threw it over other papers that littered the kitchen table. She picked up the book and headed into the lounging area and settled into her chair.  


“It’s a case so it’s not for me.” She said. She opened the book and began to read it. I got a chance to glance at the cover and was able to identify it as a classic. Jane Austen maybe. I didn’t care much for fictional works. The shelves in the living room were lined with different books on languages, the world, and records. I didn’t think it would take Jane very long to become bored of that book. I doubted she’d make it half-way. I threw the chemicals into the trash and picked up the folder. It was a thick, heavy folder. ‘It’s important than’ I thought. I set it at the bottom of the pile made my way into the living room. I picked up my violin and began to play. Jane looked up, already knowing that I didn’t look at the case. She turned back to the book and only ended up reading for a couple more minutes. I was right. Though, that wasn’t much or a surprise. I continued to play, my own thoughts intermingling. I went through the last case in my head, going over details and little facts that I could pull out of my head. I wasn’t standing in my flat anymore, I was standing on the grounds of my childhood home, watching Mycroft and I play on the bank of a small creek. I turned when a voice rang out, I looked over and spotting Jane standing in the doorway of my home. She smiled and beckoned to me.  


“We have a client.” She said. I snapped back to reality and stopped playing. I turned to see Jane looking at me while using a woman into our flat. She grabbed the chair we use for clients and set in in the middle of the room. The woman was watching me as I made my way to my chair. I sat down and began to deduce. Her nails were glossy, recently done and not chipped yet. Her hair was a mess and though she looked together, she wasn’t completely put together. Time management problems. The front of her sweater had hairs on it, cat hairs. A white one to be precise. Wedding band, but no ring tan, meaning she doesn’t wear it often. Not a divorce. At least not yet. Her makeup was smeared a little in the corner of her eyes, she’d been crying. Relatively recently. No job, at least based on her shoes which were in prime condition but not new. I paused when Jane sat down and asked her her name and her story.  


“Amanda Murphy. Me and my husband have been married for three years, but lately his job was keeping him late. I didn’t like that much and complained to him, but he wrote it off. Soon, he wasn’t coming home until really late at night.” Her eyes began to tear up and I refrained from rolling my eyes.  


“He’s been having an affair with someone at work, probably his secretary. It’s always the secretary. He hasn’t come home at all lately has he? He probably is in pretty deep then, I wouldn’t plan on him coming back any time soon and I have no doubt that you will maintain custody of your son if you go that route.” I told her. She stuttered a little,  


“But… I didn’t even tell you about my son…” She started.  


“You didn’t need to. Good day!” I said. Jane got up and walked her to the door, saying goodbye.  


“It’s always an affair isn’t it.” She said. I looked up and she explained. “Our clients, over half of them are having affairs or something of the like.” I nodded and a feeling or boredom came over me and the urge to do something compulsive came over me. I stood up and walked into the kitchen but none of my experiments were ready yet. I checked Jane’s blog for some reason before standing back up. “Bored?” She asked. I didn’t bother to answer. 

“You know, Mycroft did leave you a case.” She pointed out.  


“Why would I do that?” I spat. “Mycroft’s in charge of half the government, I’m sure he can handle it.” I pointed out. Jane rolled her eyes and turned back to whatever she was looking at. I cast a glance at her and began to analyze. ‘Pressed shirt, tucked neatly into navy pants. Obviously someone who is used to order and structure. Hair pulled back in a ponytail, military style. Shoes are slightly scuffed meaning that she frequently...’  


“You can stop now.” She said. I snapped back and she stared blankly at me. “I’ve asked you not to deduce me.” She snapped. She put the paper back on the side table and slipped off her shoes, heading up to her room. I blinked a couple times before moving on.  



	7. Book II: Not Scared

We saw many cases throughout the day, though the gloom of boredom hung over me like some ominous cloud. There were boring cases. Wives with affairs, husbands that got messed up with the wrong group of people, strange people claiming to see manifestations of doom. The most interesting one was a small child. Jane gave her special privileges. The girl was about seven and was still in her school uniform. Her dark hair poured almost all the way down her back and she looked incredibly small and delicate. Jane handed her a glass of water, and sat in her chair, asking her name and what she needed.  


“Jewel Wilkins.” She said, taking a sip of the water. “My Mom and Dad keep fighting and they’re going to take my sister away.” She told us. Surprising enough, she didn’t cry as most seven year olds might. It was a lot harder to deduce children, having so much parent influence made it hard to differentiate child from parent.  


“Do you know why they’re fighting?” Jane asked.  


“They want to send me away.” She said. “Queensberry Schools.” She said. Jane turned to me.  


“Isn’t that a while south of here?” She asked. I nodded. Queensberry was a notorious school, this girl was probably lucky to get in especially at her age.  


“My mommy doesn’t want me to go.” She said.  


“And what do you want?” I asked her.  


“I want to stay with Chelsey.” She said. Her eyes began to tear up and Jane stood up and made her way over to her, crouching near her.  


“It’s ok. How about I take you back home and we can talk to your parents. Where do you live?” She asked. The little girl named the address and Jane gestured for her to grab her coat. As the girl went to grab it, I stood. How did she do that? Get people to calm down and suggest something they’ll always say yes to. The girl didn’t even hesitate to give her her address. Jane turned to me and sensed the question in my mind. “I’ve dealt with a lot of shock victims.” She said. She grabbed her own coat and grabbed the girls hand and headed out the door. I sat down and thought over how I thought it was going to go down. The parents could be mad, they could listen. They’d have to listen to Jane. She wasn’t one to listen to anyone. I smirked for a quick second before moving on. Nothing to do. Nothing to do. I walked the flat and played a bit of violin before becoming bored again. Finally, I picked up the case Mycroft had brought me.  



	8. Book II: Not Scared

I could see why he brought it to me. Such a complicated case that he couldn’t even get the government into it. This was fairly underwraps. Many victims, almost too many. I flipped it open to the first victim. Jeremy Revere, 34 years old. Found on a balcony 24 floors up. Increased heart rate, possibly a heart attack. Friends and family reported that Jeremy had an extreme fear of heights. Abbi Morris, 27 years old. Found in an elevator, once again increased heart rate, classified as a heart attack. Extreme claustrophobia. Ashley Parson, 57 years old. Found on the edge of a Lake in the countryside. Friends said Ashley was afraid of large bodies of water. It was strange. All of their deaths were in places they would never expect to be in. All died of a “heart attack”. I flipped to the most recent case, it was still open. I grabbed my phone and called Jane. She picked up on the second ring.  


“I was just about to call you, do you…” She started. I butted in.  


“Grab a cab and head to Hudson Boulevard. If you’re there before me, wait.” I paused. I could hear muted sirens in the background. “Do I hear sirens?” I asked.  


“Yeah. Found evidence of violence at the girls home and revealed a whole history of child abuse on the husband. I called the police.” She told me.  


“And what did you do with him until they got there?” I asked.  


“I apprehended him.” was her simple answer. “I’ll be there in just a minute.” She said and hung up the phone. I marveled at how she didn’t question anything I said. I could be sending her to her death, and she wouldn’t questions. ‘Loyalty makes fools’ a voice whispered in my head. I batted it away. I stood and grabbed my jacket from the rack. I turned up the collar and stepped out the door. Mycroft had moved the knocker to be centered on the door. I moved it back. I stepped into the street and hailed a taxi.  


Part II: 

”Harrison Mull.” I told Jane as we walked towards the house. Police tape still lined the sidewalk around the house. A few investigators still mulled around the house, looking for something. “23 years old. Works at the nuclear plant on the other side of town.” I pointed out. Jane nodded and bent down under the tape. “Found in his room with the curtains and blinds pulled, windows locked, door closed.”  


“Cause of death?” Jane asked as a officer approached.  


“Apparently heart attack, but it’s a little bit more than that.” I told her. The officer stopped in front of us and held out his hand.  


“Cory Marcus. Head Officer.” He said, shaking my hand.  


“Sherlock Holmes. This is my assistant, Dr. Watson.” I told him. Jane shook his hand and the officer turned to look back at the house. All the shudders were pulled closed.  


“Yes, your brother told me that you might stop by.” He told me. My mood grimmed a little. Stupid Mycroft. He gestured to the house and walked us into the main foyer. He pointed up the stairs. “His room is the second to the left. Oh, wait!” He said as we turned to mount the stairs. He stepped out the door and returned with a girl. She had long hair that was pulled back into a slick high ponytail. She was wearing a crisp white shirt and black slacks with a long black suit coat to match. She smiled and offered her hand.  


“Halle Martin.” She said. “Forensic operations.” I took her hand and introduced myself again. I looked her over. She knew what she was doing though she looked young. Not married, career in the main option. She led a small and simple life, but believed in professionalism. I decided that she could accompany us. We journeyed up stairs and opened the door. The room was pitch black and Halle turned and flipped on lights. He was laying sprawled in the middle of the floor. I almost expected there to be blood pooling. Jane approached the body and I cast a glance around the room.  


“It’s strange.” Jane said, after examining the body for a minute. “He shows all the symptoms of someone who was in extreme shock.” Halle stepped forward.  


“Our scans showed severe trauma to the brain and heart.” She produced a piece of paper from her jacket and handed it to Jane. With shaky hands, Jane took it and quickly handed it to me. I looked over the sheet and turned around the room. Books, small television that’d been disconnected. Neatly made bed and extremely organized closet. It reminded me of something.  


“Are you okay?” Halle asked. I turned and realized that she wasn’t talking to me. Jane stood were she had a minutes ago. Her face was ghost white and she was trembling. Her breath started to hitch. Halle approached her and Jane stumbled backwards. Halle glanced at me and Jane began to breath heavily. Her eyes were wide and her pupils were small in a large expanse of grey. She looked scared. More scared than I’d seen anyone, more afraid than serial killers knowing they were caught. She slumped forward and Halle moved forward and let her lean on her. She lowered her to the ground and checked her pulse.  


“Panic Attack.” I said. Halle nodded and looked up at me.  


“Her pulse is beginning to stabilize, but we’d better regulate her body temperature or her body might think it’s going into shock.” She told me. This time I noticed things that were well concealed through regular garb. She took a commanding stance of someone who’s used to be in charge, there was a long thin scar that reached all the way up her neck that ended just at the chin. Her eyes, though bright before, seemed to be dull and somewhat haunted. They looked like Jane’s eyes. Her hands were steady.  


“Army?” I asked.  


“Not for very long.” She said. I ran this over in my head. In the Army, but not for long, scar on the neck, hands were somewhat scarred. It looked as if she’d punched glass. It clicked. Hostage crisis, a year or two ago. New recruits. I nodded at her and noticed the gun at her hip. Jane began to recover and I moved forward to help her sit up. She blinked the fog out of her eyes and Halle stood up. “How do you feel?” She asked. Jane’s eyes flitted around the room, looking for threats as she always did. She eyes landed on Halle and she began to process her some more.  


“Like I fell off a train.” She said, rubbing her temples. I stood and Jane got on her feet. I looked over at the body just a few feet away. Trauma to the brain and heart.  


“Did the scans show the health of the body?” I asked. Halle walked and picked up the pad she’d dropped to catch Jane.  


“Yes. Both the brain and the heart were malnourished. The strange part is that Henry had extreme Nyctophobia.”  


“Fear of the dark.” Jane said. Halle pointed to the outlet closest to her. A night-light was plugged into the wall but the bulb was smashed. I turned to look around the room again. Everything in the room was designed to be light. Thin blinds, Television, several night-lights. But the curtains. Thick grey curtains had been pulled up around the windows. No one with a fear of the dark would have heavy curtains. I walked over to the fabric and rubbed it in between my fingers. New material, non-expensive. Halle guided Jane out of the room and I could hear what she was saying as she walked down the stairs.  


“You better get home, that a mild panic attack but you should probably rest. I’ll call you a taxi…” She said. Jane followed her out.  



	9. Book II: Not Scared

A minute later, Halle came back up the stairs.  


“There are other open crime scenes if you’d like to see them.” I turned to her.  


“All right.”Halle gave me the address and handed me a card before I left.  


“If you ever need someone in the forensic field, I’m always open to a little adventure.” She told me. I took the card and slipped it into my pocket. I could feel many other cards in it. I got into the taxi and left without saying anything to her. Marylyn Parson, mild case of Atelophobia. Fear of imperfection. Found in her house with her things scattered all around the room, makeup half applied. Jeff Handle, Necrophobia. Fear of death. Found in his backyard, his dog was also found dead. The most recent case proved the most promising. Gloria Thiddle. Had pyrophobia, fear of fire, after her house burned down when she was little, killing her Dad. She was found dead in her living room, a fire blazing in her always empty hearth. Unlike the others, Gloria had been anything but isolated. She’d hung out with friends just a few hours before her death. Her brother, Mike Thiddle said that Gloria had been experiencing anxiety and was panicky the days before her death. She began to fuss about things that didn’t matter. It was the key I needed. People, dying in placing that mirrored their greatest fear, experienced panic attacks. Their nervous system then shut down, and the heart stopped beating thinking it was dying. Jane had a panic attack earlier. I ran outside the flat, and to a neighbor's house. Slightly out of breath, I banged on the door. A squat elderly woman opened the door.  


“Did Gloria Thiddle have any maintenance work done on her house lately?” I asked. She raised an eyebrow, or at least tried to. Her face squashed.  


“Yes. A air conditioning man came to fix her machine a couple weeks ago.”I ran back to the road and hailed a taxi. One actually came and stopped in front of me and I jumped in and gave directions to the flat.  


I ran up the stairs of the flat two at a time, hoping that when I opened the door I would be met with another dead body. I felt a tremble in my chest and shoved it down, repeating Mycroft's mantra in my head. Emotion is weakness. Emotion is weakness. I pulled open the door to the flat and Jane picked up her head. She was curled up in her chair, a lamp illuminating her face. She gave a weak smile and I noticed the large black circles under her eyes. An empty platter was sitting on the table, next to it, one still heaped with food. Jane got up, still groggy and I readjusted myself as if nothing was wrong. The thought that she was in danger turning into a dull sense of relief. She picked up her plate and left mine on the table, assuming I would eat it. She stuck it into the sink which was now void of dishes. I glanced around, the flat had been dusted too. Ms. Hudson had been here. Jane walked back to her chair and pulled out a book. As I suspected, It didn’t take her long to fall asleep. I watched her face, as she fell into the oblivion of sleep her face relaxed. The lamp light made her hair glow. I turned down the lamp and sat my chair, letting myself be absorbed into the shadow. I sat and watched and waited.  


It was late at night when I heard a light clatter. Soon the air began to blow in the room as if the air conditioning turned on. I looked at my watch and waited. Jane tossed in the chair and the blanket fell to the ground. I heard the door to the flat open, and light footsteps approach the next door. I heard the notorious stair creak and all noise stopped except for Jane’s heavy breathing. The door jiggled and instruments jiggled. I stood and crossed to the door, yanking it open. A man was standing on the front mat. He was wearing a black shirt that fit tightly over his chest. He was lean and well built. His nails were caked with drywall and paint and his dark hair was shaggy and loose. I reached over and flipped on the light on the stairs. His eyes were wide and he bolted back to the door. He slipped on the rug and thudded onto the ground. He struggled to get up and I stood next to him, waiting for him to try get up.  


Lestrade came and picked him up. He informed me that the company had been arrested and shut down after finding drugs that induced shock. I walked back into the flat and noticed that Jane was still sleeping. Her sleeping was restless, the effects would wear off soon. I left her on the couch and headed to my room.


	10. Book III: Dolls

Jane’s POV  


I woke in a cold sweat and realized that I was still sitting on the couch in the flat. I blinked away the faces that were burned into my vision. I picked up the blanket from where it had fallen on the floor. I made my way up to my room and crawled into my bed. The sheets were cold on my skin and I bundled them up. I sat in bed for a while, the faces of the past emerging every time I opened my eyes. I turned on a lamp and grabbed a small journal from a drawer. I opened it and wrote the date on the first blank page I found. I wrote about my dream and flipped to the back of the book. A list of names covered one of the pages. Mostly the names of men, a couple women. A child. I flipped back to the date and began to write. ‘It’s getting bad again’ I wrote. ‘I don’t know what to do. Or who to tell, because in the end, no one really cares’ I closed the book and thought back to when life was hectic. The words to a children's rhyme came to my head. Roses are red, violets are blue. A voice came into my head. A small child I once knew who’d sung about death before she knew what it was. I closed my eyes and snapped the journal closed. Sometimes, I’d go back and read what I wrote. I tried not to, the despair of the past seemed to live and leak from it sometimes. I laid down and left the light on, casting strange shadows around the room. Eventually I slept and the sounds of gunfire rang through my skull.  


The morning light streamed through the window and the light was still on. I turned the light off and slipped out of bed. I grabbed a white shirt and pulled it on and snatched a romper from the stack of clothes on my dresser. I combed back my hair and pulled it into a ponytail. I looked at myself in the floor length mirror. I frowned at myself in the mirror. I looked fine, though I didn’t feel it. I headed downstairs. I sat on the sofa and waited for the kettle to whistle. I hadn’t seen Sherlock yet, though I didn’t think much of it. He probably disappeared as much as I did, though he got in more trouble when he did. I flipped on the T.V and the news began to scroll across the screen. Lottery numbers, unemployment rates, politicians being themselves. Suddenly an news reporter popped onto the screen.  


“World Wide news, renowned actress Kennedy Morgenstern died last night. After suffering from mild heart-attacks. Kennedy was found in her bed-room. Police are investigating and believe that she overdosed. The nation is disheartened by the death of the greatest actress in London.” He reported. I tried to think of what movies I’d seen that she was in but couldn’t think of any. I wasn’t a big fan of modern film, they tended to romanticise wars they’d never seen. The kettle began to whistle and I poured the water in a cup. I grabbed a tea bag and set it in the cup. I tidied the kitchen while I waited for the tea, moving Sherlocks chemicals and wiping down the table. I picked the cup up to drink when the door to the flat banged open. I flinched slightly and Sherlock came running in. He stopped in front of me and plucked the cup out of my hands, gulping the scalding tea down. He stuck his tongue out and made a face.  


“What kind of tea is this?” He asked. I stared at him with a look of total indifference.  


“Seriously? You drink my tea and then want to criticise it?” I walked back over to the kettle and poured another cup.  


“Why Jasmine?” He asked. I rolled my eyes.  


“You asked for Jasmine when I went to the store because they didn’t have any of the other flavors you like.” I told him, waiting for another cup of tea to settle. Sherlock's eyes were rather wild and I realized that there was dark liquid dripping from the hem of his coat. “What are you dripping all over the floor?” I asked. A tinge of red was mixed in with water. “Tell me that’s not blood.” Sherlock smiled and watched the drops fall on the floor.  


“Not mine.” He said, continuing to drip.  


“Ms. Hudson is going to kill you if you ruin the floor again.” I told him. He moved out of the room as if he didn’t hear me. I grabbed a towel and mopped it up with my foot, leaving the towel on the ground. I drank my tea and found Sherlock standing in front of the Telly. He turned to me and smiled.  


“Oh, this is perfect!” He said.  


“What?” I asked.  


“Kennedy Morgenstern is dead.” He told me.  


“I know. I don’t think I saw any of her movies…” I started  


“The only problem, is that she’s not dead.” Confused, I pushed past him and looked at the screen. Kennedy Morgenstern was standing in front of her large home, several microphones being pushed at her face.  


“No way.” I said, half listening as she tried to explain how she wasn’t dead.  


“Oh yes.” Sherlock said and looked down at his watch. “I figure Lestrade will be here within the hour.”  


“You’re not going anywhere until your clean.” I told him. He gave me a face.  


“I’m totally clean.” He told me. I raised an eyebrow and he amended himself. “Almost clean.” I rolled my eyes and went upstairs to change my clothes before we’d have to leave.  



	11. Book III: Dolls

I searched my closet for something a little bit nicer. We were going to be with a celebrity, but I couldn’t find anything fancy. I despised skirts and dresses and settled for beige sweater that muted my hair color. I pulled a pair of dark pants out and slipped them on. I folded my jumper and set it back in its place before heading downstairs. Sherlock was sitting in his chair and I moved into the kitchen looking for my phone. After a few minutes of looking for it, I gave up and turned to my computer. I thought that I was going to write about out last case but found that I couldn’t recall details. I hardly knew anything about the case. I frowned and shut the computer. I looked at Sherlock who was putting all his focus into the palace in his mind.  


“You should probably drink some coffee.” I suggested. Sherlock opened one eye before responding.  


“It’s almost out of my system.” He said and I remembered that Sherlock didn’t like coffee much. I picked up a book and began to read when the doorbell rang. I got up and opened the door to find Lestrade. His face was pale and cold and he looked winded.  


“Need you with the Morgenstern case.” He said. I turned to head back in the flat when Sherlock was suddenly behind me. I bumped into him as I turned. He already had his coat on and was out the door before I could utter an apology. I ran into the flat and grabbed my coat and a pair of flats before rushing outside and getting into the taxi.  


Lestrade couldn’t help but look between Sherlock and I as we rode in the taxi to the Morgenstern family house.  


“Is this how it always goes?” He asked.  


“No. Normally there’s only two of us.” Sherlock said. I rolled my eyes.  


“Pretty much.” I said and Sherlock smirked. I looked outside as the homes turned more and more luxurious as the street continued. When we pulled up the house I couldn’t help but gape a little. The house must have been at least five floors and the outside was made of white marble. A flock of reporters stood not far and when I stepped out of the cab a couple of them turned to me. It was only when Sherlock got out that they began to rush.  


“Sherlock Holmes…” I heard one say to the other. Camera men dashed for their equipment and reporters smoothed their hair and clothes. Lestrade tried to get us into the house before the onslaught of questions began. Sherlock swept into the house, ignoring the click of cameras. I almost got trampled and ended up making it to the door. Stepping inside the house was more fancy on the inside than the outside. Mirrors and pictures with gold frames lined the walls. I looked around. It wasn’t as magnificent as Buckingham Palace, but it came in second place. I followed Sherlock and Lestrade into a sitting room where Kennedy Morgenstern was sitting on a plush sofa. A cat was sitting in her lap and she brushed it away when we entered. She smiled and I couldn’t help but feeling how fake she looked. I immediately took notice of the three large windows and the door on the other side of the door.  


“Come in! Come in!” She called, waving us over to the sofa. I sat in the sofa across from her and immediately sank into the pillows and had to struggle to sit up. Sherlock took a chair, and began to deduce her. He didn’t speak, but I could tell he was putting together the puzzle with his eyes. Lestrade stayed standing by the door. I waited for Sherlock to start and when he didn’t I had to pick up for him.  


“So, there’s a news report that you’re dead.” I said, trailing off at the end so she could give me more information.  


“Yes, yes. Dear, you really should have got for Light Khaki or I know! Deer Path!” She smiled and I stopped. I looked down and realized she was referring to my clothes. I didn’t know how to respond, what kind of color was Deer Path? She continued.  
“And with your statue, I’d wear heels. That way you can match your companion in height. Just be a little more bold.” She said. She spread her hands like shooting fireworks when she said bold and I just sat there. She leaned over in an attempt to whisper to me though everyone could hear her. “Try makeup too Honey.” She said with a wink. I pressed my mouth into a thin line. Obviously she was not worried about the false news reports. She turned to Sherlock. “And you! Gosh you’re handsome.” She squealed.“Such dark colors though. Try for something a little more colorful, even if it was navy it would really brighten you up.”  


“My companion was trying to ask a leading question.” He snapped. Kennedy frowned and looked back at me.  


“Oh. Well, you may proceed.” She said.  


“There’s a news report saying that you’re dead.” I told her. She smiled and her make-up seemed to pull with her smile.  


“I know. Isn’t it wonderful! So many people paying respects and showing how much they adore me!” She said wistfully. “Have you ever seen my film The Two Tales of Tonborun?” She asked.  


“No.” I answered.  


“You really should watch it, it is simply delightful! I almost broke the box-office when it came out…” She began.  


“Is that why I’ve never heard of it?” Sherlock asked.  


“I beg your pardon?” Kennedy said.  


“I’ve never heard of it. In fact, I’d never heard of you until you died.”  


“How have you not heard of me!?”  


“Simple. You’re not important.”  


“Now Sherlock…” Lestrade jumped in.  


“I’m more famous that you are Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” She said, enraged. “You and your little lackey run around London doing who knows what while I am a contributing member of society.”  


“I don’t know if people are usually receptive of your fashion critiques but you should keep your mouth shut.”  


“Sherlock…” Lestrade started. I watched Sherlock verbally destroy Kennedy Morgenstern's facade. I stood up after a few more minutes of throwing insults and made my way to the door. I pulled my overcoat back on and waited by the door. A second later, Sherlock came around, being practically dragged out by Lestrade.  


“That was fantastic.” I said, marching outside. I whistled sharply and a taxi stopped. Without waiting for Sherlock I slipped in the cab and gave him directions. Sherlock got into the cab after snapping something at Lestrade. The taxi pulled into the street and made its way back to Baker Street. I pulled the door open to the flat and called Ms. Hudson. Soon, there was a tray of tea and biscuits sitting on the table in the sitting room. I pulled off my coat and hung it by the door. Sitting down in the sofa, I flipped on the T.V. The news was still broadcasting what they called the Morgenstern Scandal. (Though it wasn’t much of a scandal). It showed a feed of Sherlock getting out of the car and entering the house. Conspiracy theories were already going on and on about why we were even there. If it was really that bad to call the Great Sherlock who gratefully still didn’t look high. Sherlock plucked down in his chair and drunk a cup of tea.  


“Well. You royally ruined that interview.” I told him.  


“She deserved it.” He said.  


“You don’t even know her.”  


“I didn’t need to.”  


“And who made you judge, jury, and executioner?”  


“Mycroft.”  


“You don’t even like Mycroft.” I pointed out. Sherlock shrugged.  


“He’s tried to get me knighted several times.”  


“But you didn’t”  


“She was being rude.”  


“So were you.”  


“She was being rude to you.” He said.  


“Does it look like I care?” I asked.  


“Yes.” He said. I wanted to tell him no, but really, I kind of did care. I cleared the dishes and cleaned them so that they would be clean when Ms. Hudson came back for them.  


“And what do you plan on doing for the rest of today?” I asked Sherlock. He looked at me.  


“Bored.” Was all he said before making his way into his room.  



	12. Book III: Dolls

I headed up to my room and found another package on my bed. It was wrapped in brown paper and when I opened it, my watch stared up at me. I frowned and looked over to my dresser where my watch was sitting. I’d broken it on one of our past cases when I tripped and fell down a flight of stair while chasing a guy. We caught him only after I slammed into him while falling and my watch broke. The broken watch sat on my bedside and I held the two watches next to each other. They were identical down to the small engravings on the side. I slide the watch onto my wrist, the leather even felt worn. I checked the package to see if there was any note who it was from and found none. I put the old watch in a drawer and tossed the paper into the trash bin. Sherlock called from down stairs and I ran to the door to see him throw the door open and run out. I grabbed my gun and tucked it into my waistband and threw on my coat before following Sherlock.  


It was about a few days when I heard Sherlock call from downstairs. I turned to the clock and looked at the time. It was 5:00. I groaned and sat up in bad.  


“Jane! We have to go!!” I heard him yell. I jumped out of bed and pulled on a flannel over a white shirt. I grabbed the same dark jeans as before and ran down the stairs,slipping on my flats and grabbing just my overcoat. Sherlock was standing by the door wearing the same outfit he had the other day. I doubted he’d changed due the fact that his shirt was wrinkled as if he slept in it. Though I doubted he slept either. He held the door open and I exited before him. The streets were strangely empty and void of taxis. I whistled, hoping maybe there was a taxi somewhere close. No car pulled up and Sherlock began to walk to the corner. I followed him and the sun began to peak on the horizon. We passed shops that were either getting ready to open or were still dark inside. I didn’t even bother asking where we were going. Eventually we made it to one of the more popular sites in London and hailed a taxi. Sherlock gave them the address for Kennedy Morgensterns house. When we pulled up all the lights were on. The streets were once again lined with reporters and police officers. I got of the taxi and dodged a cameraman. The reporters all seemed to turn from where they had been glued in front of the house to stare at me. They only moved when they saw Sherlock.  


“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I muttered as the reporters rushed forward and started asking us questions. I had no idea what was going on and eventually I caught a reporter's question.  


“How can you explain the events that occured last night?” She asked.  


“We could answer your questions if you let us on the scene.” I said, raising my voice. They all seemed to look at each other like they either didn’t realize I was there or actually found fact in what I said. The reporters parted though still the clicking of cameras followed us. I opened the door and went into the house. Everything seemed significantly duller going in the second time. Nothing seemed to glow as it did before. Lestrade walked out from a room and attempted a smile. He looked exhausted, dark rings hung under his eyes and he too was wearing the same outfit as the day before.  


“Rough night?” I asked. He nodded and brought us into the sitting room where Kennedy Morgenstern had met us before. He handed Sherlock a folder and I moved to read it over his shoulder. A picture of Kennedy stood out on top and Sherlock casual flipped it out of the way. Lestrade rubbed his face,  


“Last night we got a call saying that Kennedy Morgenstern was dead.” He explained. “It was blown off because of the report that she died that was fake. Only, I sent a guy over to check it out.”  


“So she’s dead.” Sherlock said bluntly, though he was looking at the case. I reached over and pointed to words on the document. I felt Sherlocks arm tense am mine brushed his. I ignored it.  


“Heroin overdose.” I pointed out. Sherlock nodded. “She died just like they reported.”  


“Indeed.” Sherlock said. “May I see the body?” Lestrade’s eyes visibly darkened.  


“The family is being overly protective. They want an open casket funeral and think we’re doing to tamper of deface the body.” He said, rubbing his hand over his face.  


“We can fix that.” He said. I looked at Sherlock, never sure what he was planning. Lestrade brought us into a lounge where the family had quickly assembled. All of them were stick thin and though it was early in the morning, all of them were powdered for the press. Several of them were crying and it was a wonder that mascera wasn’t running down their faces. When Sherlock stepped in behind me he bent down and whispered to me. “While I distract them, go into the adjacent room and look at the body. If you can, see if you can grab part of a nail. At least look at the eyes. Remember every detail.” He said. I nodded and kept my eyes on the group of people. He straightened. “I’m Sherlock Holmes, and I would be delighted if you all told me who you are and what you know.”  


“Sherlock Holmes? I thought you only did petty murders and tea-time mysteries?” A older woman said. Sherlock laughed. It was his people pleasure laugh. He smiled and the attitude in the room seemed to soften.  


“Well, it seemed Miss Kennedy Morgenstern committed suicide.” He said. The older woman gasped and began to cry fat tears.  


“Kennedy would never do such a thing, everyone loved her.” She said, beginning to wail.  


“Well, if you could tell me what you know, I would be glad to help.” He said. A young woman came over. She was wearing a short strapless black mourning dress. She smiled at Sherlock and grabbed his arm. Sherlock tensed a little and I continued to make my way to the back room without being noticed. She guided him to a chair and let him sit. She sat across from him with who I assumed was her mother.  


“I’m Elana, Kennedy’s older sister.” She explained. One would have thought the two sisters were twins except the hair color. Where Kennedy was natural, Elana's looked dyed to look darker with blonde highlights. I slipped through the door and I could no longer hear them talking. Kennedy Morgenstern was laying on the table in a small dining room. Though the family was being protective, they hadn’t moved the body from the room she’d died in. I circled the table, the food and anything on the table had been knocked onto the floor. I looked at the food and noticed that bits of yeast were scattered in the food. I look a small bag I had in my jacket that normally carried back-up prescription. I slipped some of the food into the bag and examined the body. The skin looked oily and when I peeled open her eyes the pupils were small and unfocused. Definitely overdose. I noticed that the sun was beginning to come up. The body had been dead since last night. I looked once more over the crime scene and slipped back out of the room.  


“I have no doubt.” Sherlock was saying. Several of the family members were still in tears or looked as if they had begun crying again. I nodded swiftly to him, though he wasn’t really paying attention. Elana was practically standing on top of him. She hovered right behind him and seemed to hang off everything he was saying. I opened the door and left it open, waiting for Sherlock to follow. “Pardon me, but I’ve got to leave.” He said. I stood in the foyer, waiting. He came out, straightening his coat. Elana followed him and closed the door behind her.  


“Thank you for coming to help even though you can’t see her.” She said, staring at Sherlock. I rolled my eyes. She was infatuated with him and Sherlock didn’t seem to notice. She licked her lips. “There’s a big party coming up for Kennedy. I was wondering if you’d like to join us?” She asked, glancing him up and down. I’d moved closer to the door, I was ready to get out of here.  


“I’d be delighted to.” He said. Elana’s face lit up like a christmas tree. “That is, only if my colleague can join us.” Elana turned and looked at me, seemingly to just now notice me. She had the same critical eye as her sister and her smile faded a little.  


“Of course.” She said, speaking through her teeth. “I’ll have an invitation sent to your flat with the details.”  


“Excellent.” He responded. I turned and walked out into the street. Reporters began to snap pictures and I shoved through them as they shouted things. I finally called a cab and Sherlock and I went back to the flat.  


“That was fun.” I said. Sherlock gave me a queer look.  


“Was it?” He questioned. “You did see the body didn’t you?”  


“Yes, and you sure had fun with your new lady friend.” I commented.  


“Was that what she was?” He asked.  


“She was practically drooling all over you.”  


“Hm. I guess she was.” He said with a smirk. I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help but smile. “So the body…” He began.  


“She was definitely dead and it looked like overdose.” I said. “Her eyes were small and slightly yellowed. They put her on top of the dining table and there was food all over the floor. She’d been dead all night.” Sherlock thought, sinking into himself.  


“Same as the report.” He said. I rummaged through my pocket and pulled out the bag of food I’d grabbed.  


“Brought you something. Sample of food off the floor, white residue. Supposed to look like yeast, but it looks like heroin.” Sherlock grabbed the bag as I threw it to him. He quickly made his way into the kitchen and went to his microscope. After reading for a while I grabbed my coat and made my way out. I called to Sherlock, but I doubted that he heard me or was paying attention. I walked down the road and stopped at a small cafe and grabbed some bread. I ate it as I walked further down the road. My military instincts kicked in and I wandered the city without forgetting how to get back. Eventually I found myself in a flowering park. I sat down and watched small kids run around. A young couple was sitting not far from me, playing with a baby. I felt a twist in my gut and my food didn’t settle. I couldn’t help but feel jealous of someone with a loving family, with a partner that loved them completely and doesn’t leave their children alone. I tried to shake the thoughts from my head and made my way back to the flat.  


“That’s it!! All we need is to get into the stock!!” Sherlock exclaimed. I walked into the kitchen.  


“What?” I asked.  


“Have you not been listening? We just need to get into the food stock and figure out how it got there!” He said excitedly.  


“I’ve been gone for over half an hour.” I said. Sherlock didn’t respond. He threw on his coat and rushed out side. I ran after him as he bolted down the street, not even stopping to lock the door behind me.  



	13. Book III: Dolls

Our search of the food was fruitless. No signs of any kind of drugs in any of the other food. The next day, Ms. Hudson came into the sitting room. I was sitting on my chair, a blanket on my lap. She dropped a bundle of mail on the table next to me. I picked it up and pulled my pocket knife from my pocket. I ripped open the first letter which ended up being bills. I set them on my lap, giving myself a paper-cut on my index finger. I sucked on my finger and picked up another letter. It was outlined in gold and was addresses in curling silver script. I called to Sherlock who was sulking somewhere about not having solved it yet.  


“Sherlock! You lady friend sent the invitation.” I called. I pulled the letter open and unfolded the paper. It was also outlined in gold and was written in the same elegant cursive as the envelope. Sherlock appeared and pulled the letter from my hand, a drop of blood landed on the paper.  


“To Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his plus one.” He said. I inwardly sighed. A plus one. Wow. “To come to the Morgenstern Estate November 14th for a delightful evening celebrating the life and success of Kennedy Morgenstern.” He read. “That’s in two days.”  


“Yep.” I said. I looked at the bills and did some math in my head. “We’re going to be a little tight this month.”  


“What?”  


“Money.”  


“We’re going to a Morgenstern party, if it’s as lavish as they’ve been before all we’ll have to do is take a wine glass and we’ll have enough for the next year.”  


“You’ve been to one?”  


“Yes, I had a childhood.” I rolled my eyes.  


“That’s two days to find something to wear.” I said.  


“Why would you need to find something to wear?” He asked, still looking over the invitation.  


“I don’t own anything nice.” I pointed out.  


“Sure you do.”  


“Have you ever seen me wear a dress?”  


“Mycroft can pick something out.”  


“Mycroft, really?”  


“He’s very apt at these things.”  


“And I’m sure he’ll know what I prefer.”  


“He’s very observant.”  


“Really? It must run in the family.” I added. Sherlock smirked then grabbed his phone and typed quickly.  


“Done.” He said.  


“I could’ve done it myself.” I pointed out.  


“I know.” He said and that was the end. I picked up a couple of shavings of paper that had fallen on the floor. I brought them over to the wastebin and noticed that part of the kitchen table had been cleared off. I looked back over in Sherlocks direction but he had picked up the violin and begun to play. I smiled to myself and walked over to my chair. I watched Sherlock. He was lean and almost looked athletic besides the fact that he didn’t care about sports. This hair was tousled parts were sticking up in different directions. I’d always been jealous of his violin skills and they way he seemed to perform everything effortlessly. Bored, I made my way up to my room.  


Two packages appeared on the kitchen table the next morning. I picked them up and weighed them in my hands.  


“Mycroft sure works fast.” I commented.  


“He owes me.” Sherlock said.  


“That doesn’t mean he has to help me.”  


“Yes it does.” Sherlock said, looking me dead in the eye. I tore my gaze away and tucked them under my arm, heading up to my room to try them on. “I recommend the second one.” Sherlock said as I made my way upstairs. How he knew what they looked like was beyond me, though it wasn’t surprising. I unwrapped the dresses and tried on each, deciding that I indeed did like the second better. I hung them up in my closet, careful to smooth out potential wrinkles. I made my way down stairs.  


“And do you have something to wear?” I asked, realizing I wasn’t sure if Sherlock had any nice suits.  


“Oh course. I own many suits.” He said.  


“Something nice.”  


“I own very nice things.”  


“And what did you wear to Buckingham Palace?” I asked, already knowing the answer. Sherlock didn’t answer, though both our gazes flicked over to the ashtray on the table. I laughed a little. “I’m going to go grab something from the store.” I said, grabbing my jacket from the hook. I headed outside and the cool breeze of autumn whipped my hair around. I took a tie out of my pocket and pulled my hair up before heading to the store. As I rummaged through the frozen foods isle, I saw a familiar face, though it was not a pleasant one.  


“Jane!” He said and strode up to me.  


“Oh. David.” I said, tucking hair behind my ear and smiling. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” I mentioned. David and I had worked close before I moved with Sherlock. After I left, David had become relatively bitter, especially when he caught me at the same time Sherlock showed up.  


“Yeah. What are you doing today?” He asked. I shrugged still trying to smile.  


“The usual. Sherlock and I will probably have people at the flat within the next hour.” David's face fell at the mention of Sherlock.  


“Oh. Anything big?”  


“I couldn’t tell you if there was.” I laughed though I was being serious. No one knew about the cases except Lestrade, Sherlock, and anyone else that was directly involved.  


“Are you… are you doing anything tomorrow night?” He asked. I didn’t even have to think and for once was glad I was already busy.  


“Yeah, I’m going to a party tomorrow night.” I explained  


“Oh. Well, I hope you have fun.” He said. I smiled and said my thanks before turning away. He was nice, I guess. At one point I might have called him cute but after some issues at work I tended to avoid him. I walked down the aisle, scanning rows of spices. I picked up a small can of paprika and put it in the basket. Thanksgiving was not far though I doubted Sherlock and I would have a proper one. I went back to frozen food and piled different microwavable foods into the basket. After I checked out, I went back to the flat.  
Sherlock indeed had a person in the flat and I couldn’t help how ironic it was that when they showed up I was always grocery shopping. I threw the contents of the basket into the freezer and went into the living room. The man twisted uncomfortably in the client chair.  


“This is the fourth time this week.” Sherlock said.  


“I told you I was leaving, it’s not my fault you weren’t listening.” I said, sitting in my chair. Sherlock turned to the man,  


“Now we may proceed.” He told him. He gulped and pushed hair out of his eyes. He kept looking from Sherlock to me. Over and over, opening and closing his mouth.  


“Umm… I… I just….” he started.  


“Well you just spit it out!” Sherlock exclaimed and the man bursted into tears.  


“Sherlock!” I shouted.  


“What!?”  


“You made him cry!”  


“That’s his fault.”  


“Well, now what are we supposed to do?”  


“Nothing.”  
I rubbed my face. “Please don’t tell me this is another reporter.”  


“Technically no. They hired someone off the street to do it after I kicked out three of them.”  


“God no.” I said. The man continued to cry. “This is fantastic.” The man got up from the chair and ran out the door. I rolled my eyes. “First I run into David, then we have reporters…”  


“David.” Sherlock spat. “What a goldfish.” I smirked at him, for once we had similar opinions. I’d tried to balance Sherlock and some of my old “friends”, and in the end, I just let them go. It was worth it in the end, though David seemed to feel the most wounded at the fact I no longer wanted to be associated with him. I opened my laptop and clicked through emails, most of them spam. I’d changed my email and phone number several times after some fan kept getting hold of them. Sherlock picked up the violin and began to play. I admired the way that he played and had no doubt that with their family that Mycroft also had some secret talent other than being annoying.  
Later in the day I threw in a microwavable meal and ate it while watching the Telly. It didn’t take long from some minor story about Sherlock and I popped up. We seemed to be the only thing London wanted to talk about. They were still talking about the Morgenstern case, how nothing was confirmed, blah, blah, blah. With a mouth half full of food, I turned to Sherlock.  


“Think we’ll see our killer tomorrow?” I asked. He looked at me and continued to play, though his eyes sparkled in a way that told me yes. Seemingly nothing got him more excited than to catch a murderer or making fun of people. I set my dish in the sink and rinsed off some of the residue. I decided not to push Sherlocks eating habits, if he was hungry, he’d eat.  



	14. Book III: Dolls

It was about an hour before the party, though I was already getting ready. I showered and blow dried my hair. I pulled out an old curling iron and proceeded to try to curl it. The result was horrible. The hair was uneven and the curls looked more like rags and the glamorous curls everyone else wore. I brushed my hair again and gave up. I braided my hair into a crown and left it there, small strands on the back on my neck and ear pulling out. It looked good enough and was simple enough that in the army it wasn’t uncommon for formal occasions. I slipped off the robe I was wearing and stepped into the dress. The dress was a dark blue and had a sheer layer over it. The sheer layer was decorated with flowers and made the dress look less plain. The sleeves went halfway down my arms and the skirt ended at my knee. I turned and zipped up the back when I noticed you could see part of my scar on my shoulder. The skin was gnarled and ugly. I rubbed my hand over it but didn’t bother to try to hide it much. I pulled out a pair of blue heels that went with the dress. I looked at myself in the mirror and felt like I was looking at another person. I usually hid some of my curves, but this dress did not. I looked a little bit more like I belonged in the world of parties. If all else fails, my shoes made great weapons. I made my way down the stairs without falling and my shoes made loud clicking noises on the wood.  


“Sherlock!” I yelled. “We’re going to be late.” His bedroom door was still closed and I decided to sit on the stairs to my room. I fiddled with my bag and waited with a sigh. I looked up and hoped that I didn’t smear the little makeup I’d decided to wear. I shrugged it off and waited. After ten minutes I heard the door to the his bedroom open. I stood up and looked at my watch. “I told you we’re going to be late.” I said looking up. Sherlock was wearing a black suit and had attempted to tame his hair. He looked good, I mean, good for someone who ran around in a bathrobe half the time. He didn’t notice my glance and looked me up and down. He nodded and I quirked an eyebrow.  


“That’s alright. We’ll be fashionably late. Rich people don’t like those that arrive ‘early’.” He explained.  


“Of course, rich people have some strange etique that I will never understand.” I said. Sherlock laughed a little and a black car pulled up in front of the flat.  


“Mycroft thought we should avoid showing up in a taxi.” He said  


“Of course, and Mycroft is always super observant of these things and never petty.” I got a smirk out of Sherlock and he opened the door. This time he actually held it open and I slid onto the seat. I smiled and pushed down the flush rising in my cheeks. I handed the invitation to the driver and started on our way. “So what’s the plan?” I asked.  


“We’ll just mingle with the family a little, after talking to them it should be fairly obvious which one it is.” I nodded and looked out the window. Soon, the apartments and buildings turned into large estates with mansions.  


“I can’t believe people actually live in those houses.” I said. “I can’t believe that they can afford them.” Sherlock didn’t comment. As we continued the houses got larger and the estates more extravagant. Finally, at the end of the road, laid a large house. It was covered in soft lights and a line of cars was pulling up in front of the doors. Ladies and gentlemen were getting out of the cars and going up the stairs and into what was the largest house I’d ever seen.  


When it was finally our turn the car pulled up right in front of the stairs. A couple of short boxy men came and opened the door and I stepped out. The other went around and opened the door for Sherlock. I stared at the house and took a step forward when I noticed Sherlock was gesturing for me.  


“Just stick by me, and try not to offend anyone.” He said, grabbing my arm. He looped my arm through him and gave me a quick glance before we walked up the stairs. We checked Sherlocks name off the list, and checked the box under the plus one. I tried not to be offended. It didn’t take long to identify some familiar faces in the crowd. I noticed politicians, doctors, and celebrities mingling in the crowd. I mentally marked three doors and windows before proceeding. Sherlock guided me slightly out of the crowd and it didn’t take long before Mycroft appeared. He looked at me and frowned, handing Sherlock a note.  


“What was that?” I asked. Mycroft looked at me.  


“Sherlock and I had a little bet going on.” He said.  


“And you lost.” Sherlock pointed out. Mycroft glared at him and looked at both of us with a sigh.  


“Just try not to offend anyone.” He said, and walked away. Sherlock gestured to a large group of people across the hall. All of them were wearing black, though it looked more elegant than sad.  


“That’s the family. I’m going to talk with them, just stay here.” He said, disappearing into the crowd.  


“Stay here, don’t offend anyone, you wore the wrong dress.” I grumbled to myself. A couple ladies migrated towards me, glasses of champagne in their hands.  


“Well hello!” One of them said. I smiled and went to talk with them. I was glad the extra height my heels gave me. Both of them were tall and blonde, their faces delicately powdered. “I don’t think we’ve met yet.” She said.  


“Jane Watson.” I said, nodding towards her and her companion. They giggled and looked between each other.  


“And what do you do?” The other asked.  


“I was a doctor.” I said.  


“Oh! A doctor! My first husband is a doctor. What do you specialize in?” She asked.  


“I don’t doctor anymore, I was in the military. I specialized in emergency and general care.” I explained. One ladies face turned kind of sour.  


“Gosh, military. Such dirty business.”  


“Is that where you got that nasty scar on your shoulder?” The other one chimed in.  


“Yes, it’s quite the eye sore.” One said.  


“I know!” One exclaimed. “I know a really great surgeon who can fix it for you. Must have been a nasty fall to make such a scar.” She said. I gaped at them,  


“I was shot.” I said.  


“Absolutely dreadful. Still, I know the perfect place you can go to get it fixed.” She said.  


“No thanks.” I said. Both their faces fell and the ‘nice’ nature turned sour. They turned their noses up. I moved across the room, listening to conversations as I walked. I grabbed a glass of champagne and caught part of the conversation.  


“They really do let anyone in these things now.” “Yes, I think that’s Mr. Holmes plus one.” “Mycroft Holmes?!” “No, the other one, Sherlock.” “Why would he bring her, though I heard….” I continued to walk. I was almost used to the whispers, the insults, the unneeded commentary. Sherlock had, of course, disappeared. I sighed. At this point I just wanted to leave and we hadn’t even been there for an hour. After a half and hour of looking, I found Sherlock. He was still standing near the group but was pulled off to the side. He was talking with Elana who was wearing a suggestive, skimpy dress. I rolled my eyes and worked my way around the crowd. When I got close, Sherlock had said something to offend her.  


“Sherlock…” I said, trying to get his attention when Elana’s eyes whipped towards to me.  


“You brought her as your plus one? Oh, come on Sher, you can do so much better than that!” She said, grabbing Sherlocks arm. She pouted her lips and begged him. “Come on…” She said, biting her lip. Sherlock was impassive.  


“Sherlock, I’m going back to the flat.” I told him. I moved back through the crowd to the door. As I made it close, a member of the Morgenstern family cornered me.  


“So, you’re Sherlock Holmes plus one?” She asked.  


“Yes, and I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to go…” I explained.  


“Nonsense! It’s just started, is there something you don’t like, I’d be glad to help you.” She said. A man who I assumed was her husband came with a glass of champagne and handed it to his wife.  


“I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.” I stuttered. She reached out and dumped the contents of the glass down my front.  


“Go then.” She said, stone cold eyes staring at me. I stared at her. I put my hands to my sides, my fists trembling. Even in the army I wasn’t treated as bad as this and only a thin string was keeping me from yelling at her. I turned on my heel and marched outside, the whole party having gone silent. Whispers followed me all the way outside and I realized that I had no idea where they had pulled around the car. A servant held out a pair of keys to me and I snatched them out of his hand. He didn’t even look sympathetic. He gestured to the back of the house and I walked out and clicked the keys, waiting for a car to beep. Rows and rows of black cars and I fought the urge to kick one. Finally I found the car and slid into the front seat. It turns out the drivers didn’t come back until the party was over, so I’d have to drive myself. I slipped my shoes off and put them on the seat to the left. I pushed the keys into the ignition and drove out of the estate, leaving the glittering lights and Sherlock behind.  


When I finally made it back to the flat the sky had turned dark and the lights of the city were blazing. I opened the door of the flat and listened to it click shut. I left the car parked out front, Mycroft or his driver was going to have to come and get it himself. I walked up the stairs to my bedroom and dumped my shoes unceremoniously in the closet. I grabbed a fist of cloths from one of my drawers and walked into the bathroom. I stopped and looked at myself in the mirror. More hairs had escaped the braid in my hair and I yanked it out, waves of hair dropping to my shoulder. My makeup was a bit smeared and the dress had a wonderful yellowish stain right down the middle. I doubted that it would come out. My eyes finally welled up with tears and I struggled to keep them from falling. I wiped the makeup off my face and peeled off the dress. I stepped into the shower and cleaned my hair. I hadn’t even lasted two hours. After I dried my hair and put the dress in the closet, not even bothering to try to get the stain out. I pulled on a pair of checkered pajama pants and a black shirt. I didn’t bother eating anything and sat on my bed, staring at the peeling paint on the wall. Eventually I feel into a stupor, willing myself to think about anything than the party. I hoped Sherlock would find a ride back, though Elana would probably be more than happy to bring him back and if push comes to shove Mycroft was there. After a while I turned out the light and laid on the bed, staring at the ceiling well after I heard Sherlock walk into the flat.  


I procrastinated getting out of bed and was sure I’d only slept a couple hours. I slumped down the stairs and began to make tea before I acknowledged Sherlock. He was sitting in his chair and had been watching me ever since I’d come down the stairs. Without looking at him, I said,  


“Did you find her?” I asked.  


“Yes.”  


“And?”  


“It was a close family friend. Jealous. She was the only one who seemed not to care that her best friend was dead.” He said. I nodded and poured the tea into a cup and walked back upstairs.


	15. Book IV: Just a Drill

Sherlocks POV  


It’d been several months after the party incident and even though Jane had taken the car back to the flat I managed to make it back. Since the rise and rapid fall of Moriarty, no case had ranked over a three. The problem at the pool kept replaying over and over in my mind. All the things that happen, all the things that didn’t happen and all the things that could’ve. I sat in my chair, deep in though, the room fading away into my mind palace. I was sitting on the bed in my childhood bedroom. The room was rather plain for that of a child’s, the floors and shelves stacked with books. A small version of me was laying on the floor, reading a books whose title I didn’t have to see to know. The door swung open and a full grown Mycroft stepped into the room. He smiled at me, a smile I was never sure was supposed to be warm or sinister. Probably both.  


“You’d better be careful with your companions Sherlock. They always tend to get hurt.” He said.  


“That’s their choice. I never ask them to stay.” I told him.  


“Maybe that’s what hurts them. Too much choice.” He told me. Child Sherlock stood and threw the book on the bed.  


“Why should I listen to you?” I asked him. He smiled again, this time, he looked a bit sad.  


“Because I’m more rational that you will ever be. The locks have been closed for a long time.”  


“Alone is what protects me.”  


“From what?”  
I didn’t answer.  


“I’d figure it out soon, you can’t prepare for something you don’t know about.” He told me. A piercing scream rang up the stairs and Mycroft and I looked towards the door. “That’s my que to leave.”  


“Mycroft…” I warned, but he’d already vanished. I rubbed the fog from my eyes and my old bedroom turned into the flat. It was strange sometimes, talking to someone who was just a projection of the mind. Really, everyone was a projection. Their own mind creating images and expectations. I stood up and walked around the flat, trying not to pick up the shotgun and add another hole to the wall. I stopped and looked up the stairs, straining to here Jane upstairs. When I didn’t hear the familiar groan of the floorboards meaning she was upstairs I turned and look back in the direction of her chair, thinking maybe I’d overlooked her again. I hadn’t. I picked up my violin and launched into a familiar tune, my fingers moving across the memorized threads. The sun began to lower in the sky when the door clanged open. Jane walked into the kitchen and dumped a large sack onto the table, disrupting the beakers.  


“You disappeared again.” I said, setting the violin down.  


“I told you last night that Molly asked me to help her move flats.” She said, rubbing her shoulder. It was bothering her again, though her leg didn’t seem to cause her any discomfort.  


“Where did she move?” I asked.  


“Closer to the lab so she doesn’t have to commute to work. I asked if you wanted to come, when you didn’t answer, I left.” She said. I clicked my case shut. Jane was pulling out plates and took something large out of the sack. I moved into the kitchen and looked into the bag. There were spices and Jane was holding a chicken.  
“And Molly didn’t need this food why?” I asked. Jane shrugged her shoulders and slid the chicken into the oven.  


“I don’t know, she insisted that I took it so we could have a ‘proper’ meal.” She said, putting air quotes on the word proper. “I don’t even know how to use all these spices.”  


“You really should make sure that I’m listening when you tell me you’re leaving.”  


“You really should pay attention when I telling you I’m leaving.”  


The next day was just as unfruitful, a handful of clients came and quickly left. Petty theft, affairs, lost keys. Nothing above a two. Jane recorded the clients that came and was in the process of editing her next blog post. She’d conveniently left out the Morgenstern Case, though her blog readers constantly requested the tale. It was still a somewhat sore spot for her, it’s not everyday you get champagne dumped down your front and though I’d seen the act many times at parties, I’d never participated. After Jane had left, I managed to get away from the Morgenstern family and called Lestrade who came and picked up Kennedy's murderer. Sure, I created a scandal, but what was life without playing with a little bit of fire? Thanks to Jane’s abrupt exit, I had to wait until everyone was leaving in order to leave with Mycroft, though I regretted not going with her when she told me she was going. The light had been off in her room when I got back, but I knew she was probably still awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering how she went wrong. Besides the point, we sat and did relatively nothing, giving me time to fade back into my mind palace. This time I walked on the beach outside my home. Child Sherlock played with little Mycroft and a scruffy dog. I watched as they ran up and down the beach, contemplating when you lose your childish innocence and trade it for rationalizing. A voice called to me, a little Sherlock's head picked up. I looked across the grass and saw Jane standing outside the house. She called again and little Sherlock went running. I followed and stood beside Jane. She took small Sherlocks hand and spoke.  


“Can I go inside now?” She asked. He shook his head, Jane frowned for a second before smiling. She walked up the steps to the house and opened the door. She let go of Sherlock's hand and ushered him inside. Instead of following him, she closed the door behind him. When she pulled her hand away, it was sticky with blood. A bloody hand was on the door where she’d pulled it open, dark red coating the knob and dripping onto the ground. I wasn’t sure when I’d lost control of what happened in the mind palace. Slowly, I’d become less of a participant and more of a viewer. Using it to watch people in situations real life didn’t provide, and while Jane didn’t want me to deduce her, this technically wasn’t her, a projection. She was sad, something that I’d noticed quickly and often. Sometimes in the glances she casted in my direction when she thought no one was paying attention, I could see a little behind the mask she seemed to never remove. The tough outer layer began to peel away, I could see how vulnerable she was. It was interesting, looking at a projection of my own mind. Slowly, the scene peeled away and a deeper layer was exposed. A large chalkboard appeared on the wall, I picked up a piece of chalk and began to write, pulling pieces of what I know to create an elaborate map of all the possibilities of the future. After coming to no conclusion, a stark question mark was drawn in the middle of the board. I ran my hand through my hair. There were so many ways to go wrong, though I didn’t know what they were. Eventually, the chalkboard peeled away and the flat reappeared. The sky was dark and I turned to look at the clock. It was close to seven o'clock and I looked around the flat. A plate of floot, still steaming was sitting on the table. I picked it up and peered in the kitchen. Jane had her back to me, her back muscles tight as she reached over to write something. The table for once, was spotless. My microscope had been moved to the counter and all of the chemicals put on a shelf. An empty plate sat next to Jane and I could see dishes in the sink. She’d tried to cook, and I looked down at the food on my plate. I turned and walked into my room and scraped the food into the trash. I felt a little bad. I put them empty plate back where I’d found it, making it look like I’d actually eaten. I walked back into my room and decided to ‘retire’ early, though I knew I’d be up for a few more hours.  



	16. Book IV: Just a Drill

The next morning I paced around the living room, think of something to do, something to do, something to do. There was nothing. No cases, nothing interesting. It was excruciating. Jane came back from one of her jogs and went up the stairs to shower. She came back down wearing a pair of black jeans and a loose gray shirt, her hair hanging loose and somewhat wet. She walked into the kitchen and I followed her, watching her get ready to make her morning tea.  


“Morning.” She said, her back towards me.  


“Morning.” I muttered back. I left the kitchen and paced the living room more. Jane came back in holding a cup of tea.  


“If you’re not careful you’ll wear down the carpet right there.”  


“Of, who cares about a carpet.”  


“I care about the carpet, sit down and do something.”  


“That’s the problem, there’s nothing to do.”  


Jane shrugged her shoulders, “Then you better find something.” She drank some of the tea and put the cup on the table beside her chair. I picked up a knife from a table and threw it at the wall. “Sherlock…” Jane started. I yanked it from the wall and threw it again. “Sherlock!” She said, raising her voice, I turned, grabbed the knife and threw it into the wall. She physically flinched though the knife was nowhere near her. I inwardly made a note not to throw knives near someone with PTSD. She stood from her chair, disrupting the teacup sitting on the table causing it to shatter on the floor. Jane looked at me credulously before bending down and picking up the shards of glass off the floor. She turned, went into the kitchen and I picked up the knife, throwing it one more time into the wall before leaving it there. She came back into the room fully composed. “Sherlock. You can’t go around throwing knives.” She said.  


“I just did. No one stopped me then.”  


“I tried to.”  


“Does saying my name count as trying?”  


“If I really wanted to get that knife out of your hands I would. And probably break your wrist in the process.”  


“You trust too much.”  


“And you too little. You should really take care of yourself, who's to say the knife won't slip and you’ll cut yourself open.”  


“I doubt it.”  


“Doesn’t mean it can’t happen.”  


“I know what I’m doing.”  


It was Jane’s turn not to respond. She sat back down in the chair, leaving the stain on the floor. The carpet was already mismatched. It had been thrown up on, bleed on, pooped on (though not by a person), burned, and much more. I was surprised Ms. Hudson didn’t make us buy a new one. A familiar pain rose in my head, the kind you get when you stare at a computer screen to long or are just so bored you can’t think straight. Jane stood up and plucked the knife out of the wall, ignoring the bullet holes that also riddled the same wall. Sirens began to wale outside and I leapt up, going to to the window like a child watching snow. A firetruck came zooming down the street, closely followed by an ambulance. I threw off the bathrobe and put my coat overtop the clothes I’d worn for two days.  


“Jane, time to go.” I said, putting on a pair of shoes.  


“I’ll sit this one out.” She said, suddenly looking very tired. Not waiting, I ran out the door and hailed a cab.  


I told the cab to follow the trucks, though it became difficult as they sped through red lights. Eventually, I pulled out my phone and texted Lestrade.  


[Address] 

[Helpware Building 882, 4th Street.] 

I showed the address to the driver and we went on our way. At the arrival of the building, things seemed oddly calm. Firefighters and Ambulance drivers sat with the doors of their trucks open. Police tape covered the door and though it was considered a scene no one seemed overly worried. I pulled up the police tape and held it up for a second before remembering that Jane wasn’t behind me. I dropped it back down before making my way to Lestrade who was talking to a man in an overly expensive suit. One that was probably hard for him to afford and was made to look more fancy than it actually is. The bottoms of the pants were scuffed and the shoes had been shined. Dressed to impress. 

“What happened here.” I said, interjecting in whatever conversation they had. 

“Fire alarm went off, though there was no fire. Employees went to get emergency supplies from the closet and found a body.” He said, glancing behind me. “Where’s Jane?” 

“At the flat.” 

“What’d you do.” He asked. I looked him over. 

“I didn’t do anything.” I told him. He rolled his eyes and gestured to the front door. Inside there were a few police officers searching through drawers. I spotted a couple people flipping through files on the floor. Employment records, maintenance, everything. We walked to the elevator and stepped in, hitting the button to the third floor. 

“Do you know how the alarm was set off.” I asked 

“No.” Lestrade said, watching the numbers as the ticked up. The door opened to reveal a room full of people. Office workers were sitting on one side of the room, no doubt being held for questioning. Lestrade walked to the closet where several forensic officers were working around the body. I batted them away and got a good look at the body. The skin was pale and gaunt, the eyes glassy and empty like all corpses. The eyes were rimmed with red and the tips of the fingers were tinged purple. The body had been dead for a while, not long enough to rot. Though if it had been in the closet the whole time someone would have smelled it. I stood and looked at the group of people in the room. 

“Which one found the body?” I asked. Lestrade pointed to an older looking woman in a tight pink dress. I walked over to her and opened my mouth to introduce myself. 

“Oh goodness!! Thank you!!” She exclaimed. “Someone who can finally fix this mess!” Her voice was thick and her face tearstained, she clutched a kleenex in her hand. 

“Um, can you describe what happened Ms….” 

“Hamil.” She said. I nodded and gestured for her to continue. “I’ve been working here for just over three years and well, nothing like this has ever happened. I mean, the Halloween party was pretty scary, but I don’t think there were any dead bodies…” 

“Ms. Hamil.” I stated. “Just tell me what happened.” 

“Well, we always have drill and stuff, but we never really participate. Usually we all go in the closet so we don’t have to go all the way downstairs and come back. The closet is definitely large enough for all of us, I mean one time when the cops came looking for one of the workers we’d just filed, we all went into the closet. We all fit too and there used to be four more people that worked up here…” 

“Ms. Hamil. The story.” I ground out. She hushed me and lightly slapped my hand. 

“I’m getting there.” 

“Get there faster!” I said, my temper rising with my voice. I turned on my heel and interviewed another worker and found that most of the workers had no idea what was going on. They’d been sitting it their cubical when the power went out and the fire alarm turned on, next thing everyone knew, Ms. Hamil was screaming about a body. I rolled my eyes, I was getting nowhere. No one seemed to know anything and the one person who did wanted to tell me their life story. I picked up a chair and threw it against the wall. 

“Gosh!!” I yelled, utterly frustrated. Lestrade rolled his eyes. 

“I feel like their is a very simple situation to this.” He said. I whirled on him. 

“You better not be joking with me because the next chair I throw might hit Ms. Hamil on her fat head.” I ground. 

“Just call Jane.” He said. I threw my hand in the air, 

“Yes!! She knows how to deal with annoying people!!” I grabbed my phone out of my coat pocket and dialed her number. A forensic officer came up as the phone was ringing. 

“None of the files match the body.” He said, handing Lestrade a file and walking back out. Finally, Jane picked up. 

“What now.” She said. 

“Would you like me to explain or come and see?” I asked. I heard the sound of cloth and a door open. The sounds of the street could be heard over her voice. 

“What’s the address?” She asked. I gave her the address and heard her whistle for a taxi. “Be there in five.” She said before hanging up. I turned to Lestrade, smiling. 

“She’ll be here in five minutes, though with traffic it’ll probably be more like seven.” I said. Lestrade smiled and rolled his eyes, flipping open the file.


	17. Book IV: Just a Drill

The elevator dinged and Jane walked out. She was wearing the same black jeans and grey shirt as before though her pants were dusted in flour. 

Her hands were buried in her pocket and she took in the room. She walked over to where I was still inspecting the body. 

“Let me guess. Big pink lady’s giving you problems.” She said. I nodded and Jane adjusted her jacket and approached her. 

“Hello, I’m Doctor Jane Watson. We’re trying to find out exactly what happened earlier this afternoon. Could you tell me what happened?” She asked, using concise words. Ms. Hamil smiled. 

“Thank goodness!! Someone around here actually wants to get to the bottom of this!” She exclaimed. She took Jane’s arm and whispered something in her ear. Jane’s face flushed just a bit and Ms. Hamil launched into her story. 

“So, normally during the drills we go and grab the emergency bag and sometimes, I’ll just hang out in the closet so I don’t have to go all the way down to the ground floor and come back.” She started. I created the picture in my mind, the closet minus the dead body. “This time, the power was out when the fire alarm turned on, so I went over to the closet to grab the bag. But,” She said, her face turning pale and ghostly. “When the power came back on, I saw the body in there. I shrieked and screamed but by the time we were going to evacuate, the drill was over.” She said. Jane thanked her and moved past me to look at the body. 

“No visible wounds.” She said, gingerly lifting the corpses arm. “He’s been dead for a while.” She sniffed the air and stood up. “I’d guess some kind of scandal. The body smells like preserving chemicals from the morgue, so there really wasn’t a murder.” She looked at me and small pieces began to click together. It would have been the perfect opportunity for someone to set up to get someone fired, finding the body on this floor would make it so that everyone working in this part of the building would be a suspect. If evidence turned to one individual, they would eliminated from the equation. Normally, the closet wouldn’t be opened, or if it was it would be by Ms. Hamil. Since the power went out, it would be the perfect opportunity for someone to sneak in the dark, though accidentally turning on the fire alarm would make the authorities come. With the authorities here and the whole floor stuck in one place, there wouldn’t be time to plant the evidence in one of their desks. That meant that somewhere in the office, someone would have fake, incriminating evidence sitting in their desk. Since the whole office except for this floor had been dismissed, they would have enough time to go back and remove the evidence from their own office. Hoping that the cops didn’t figure any connections, they’d be able to come back and remove it without a word. I clapped my hands. 

“Genius!!” I said. I turned to Lestrade. “Lestrade! Somewhere in this complex, someone has fake incriminating evidence for this murder.” He nodded and grabbed a radio, calling for some of the officers still lingering down stairs. I looked at Jane, then back to Lestrade. “I think we’re done here.” 

“We’ve got it from here.” He said, nodding. I headed back to the elevator with Jane at my heels. A case that might have taken me much longer took Jane only a few seconds. Sometimes inferior thinking made things simple. Jane hesitated for a second, 

“Coming?” I asked. She looked back at me and gave me a strained smile. “I’d be lost without my blogger.” 

“So that’s it, just a blogger?” She asked jokingly. I smiled at her, 

“My blogger, my cleaning lady, my housekeeper, my partner, my friend…” I said. Jane’s smile made it worth it.


	18. Book V: Inheritance

Jane’s POV  


It didn’t take long for the space between cases to increase, the space between rent and income increasing. I’d avoided a job for a while, not wanting to abandon a life of excitement for something boring and drab, though eventually it was inevitable. A Doctor's office across town finally needed someone and I leapt at the opportunity to make additional money. Leaving my coat on the rack I stepped out the door of the flat and into the street. I walked down to the bus stop and waited until the dusty blue bus pulled up at the stop. Same as almost everyday of the week, I took one of the seats in the front of the bus. I pulled my bag onto my lap and watched as the city turned into a blur outside the window. I felt eyes on me and turned. A woman was sitting across from me on the bus, a small purple bag on her lap. For how young she looked, her face was lined almost as if she spent too much time worrying. She smiled at me and I smiled back. Her long dark hair was in waves the hung over her shoulders. At the next stop she stood and slid into the seat next to me. She held out a bony hand.  


“Marissa Carter.” She said introducing herself.  


“Jane Watson.” I responded, shaking her hand. She smiled and turned forward, riding to the next stop before getting off. She paused before the door and turned and waved to me. I smiled and waved back, watching her disappear into the crowds of London. I rode the bus just a little further before I got off for work.  


When got back to the flat I dumped my bag into a heap on the floor and took my hair out of the pony tail that felt like it was pulling my brain out. I sighed and flopped into the chair. I heard a bang and groaned. Sherlock came out of the kitchen his face covered in what looked like soot. I rubbed my face. Sherlock gave me a maniac smile,  


“I think I almost got it.” He said. I laughed a little and followed him into the kitchen. I grabbed food from the freezer and threw it into the microwave. I jumped up and sat on the counter and looked at the poor torched table.  


“There was a strange lady on the bus today…” I started.  


“There are always strange people on public transportation.” He said,  


“Well, yeah. But she, she looked relieved to see me.” I said, Sherlock picked his head up from his microscope, his hair falling into his eyes.  


“I doubt it’s anything.” He said, shrugging it off.  


The next day I ran down the stairs, practically tripping over the stairs. I grabbed my coat and slammed my feet into some shoes.  


“I’ve got to go to work!!” I yelled to Sherlock “I have an emergency surgery, won’t be back ‘till tonight!!” I grabbed my bag off the floor and ran out the door, not bothering to lock it. I hoped Sherlock heard me as I ran to the bus stop, hoping to catch it before it left. As I made it close to the station, the bus doors began to slide close. “Hold the door!!” The door hesitated and I slipped in before the bus went speeding off. Marissa Carter was standing there, her hand hovering over the hold button for the door. I slid down into the seat next to her, “Thank you.” I said breathly.  


“You’re welcome, in a hurry?” She asked smiling.  


“Yeah, I wasn’t supposed to go in today but they’re having a surgery and I have to be there.” She smirked in a similar manner to Sherlock.  


“That explains it.” She exclaimed. A couple stops later I stood to let her out of the seat, and once again she smiled and waved to me as the bus pulled away. I told Sherlock again, all he said was ‘That’s nice’.  


Wednesday I got up earlier than usual. I slipped on some clothes and rubbed my eyes. I still wasn’t used to having to get up to go to a real job. Sherlock took care of any clients that came, though if any did he never told me about them. I’d had to stop writing my blog. When I stepped onto the bus, I found Marissa Carter sitting in our seat and this time I smiled to her first and sat down next to her.  


“Morning, Ms. Carter.” I said. She waved her hand at me.  


“You can call me Marissa. Tired?” She asked. I suppress a yawn and nodded. She reached down and pulled up a cup. She smiled. “I know you Englanders like your tea, but maybe a little coffee will pick you up.” I thanked her and took the cup. I noticed that her accent was indeed American, her vowels not as long as a typical Englander. It was a detail Sherlock would have been able to pick out without even hearing her talk. I sipped the coffee and we rode in silence. I waved to her as she got off the bus.  


When I got back to the flat Sherlock poked his head out of the living room.  


“You smell like coffee.” He said.  


“I had some this morning.” I explained sliding down into my chair.  


“Why didn’t you get tea? Coffee is just a st….” He started to say before I cut him off.  


“Marissa Carter got me some this morning.” I said.  


Sherlock said nothing.  


Thursday was just about the same, though I found myself looking forward to seeing a familiar face in a crowd full of blanks. I stepped onto the bus and sat down next to her. She smiled and pulled out a chocolate palette.  


“For you.” She said. I stared, chocolate palettes of this sort were expensive. There were at least fifty chocolates in the box.  


“I… I can’t…” I started. She put the box in my hands and I marveled that a woman so young had the mannerisms of someone twice her age.  


“You’ve got to treasure the sweet things in life, you never know when they’ll be gone.” She said. I slipped the box into my bag and vowed to bring her something the next day.  


Friday I went and grabbed a necklace I’d found in my drawers. It was a dainty little thing, a single, raw pearl was stranded on it. I boarded the bus and smiled, hoping to see Marissa sitting in her normal seat, but she wasn't. I looked out the window the whole ride and looked out the window as we passed her familiar stop.  


Saturday and Sunday rolled by without a hitch, helping Sherlock with cases when I didn’t have to run to work. I’d missed a shift due to a case and boss was not happy. I was almost scared of having to choose between Sherlock and a career. I loved cases, there was nothing better than being with Sherlock on an adventure. But, we also need money. Mycroft wasn’t wrong when he said that I missed the war. The familiarity of everything, the having a real purpose, knowing what was happening and finding control. Real life afterwards had proved to be dull, plus the injury made me feel like the goldfish Sherlock thinks everyone is. Late Sunday afternoon the doorbell rang. I stood from my chair and walked to the door. A man in a crisp black suit was standing at the door. He looked down at a card in his hand and back at me.  


“Is this the residence of Ms. Jane Watson?” He asked. I tucked a loose strand of hair out of my face and nodded.  


“Yes, come in.” I said. Sherlock was sitting in his chair and picked his head up when the man entered. I grabbed the chair used for clients and placed it in the middle of the room though I had a feeling he wasn’t here for help. He put his hand out to shake Sherlocks hand,  


“I’m Marcus Henry, an associate of James Hudson law firm.” He said. Sherlock didn’t shake his hand but rather left him standing there. Eventualle Marcus Henry put his hand down and I gestured to the chair. I settled down in my chair and he pulled out a briefcase. “I won’t take too much of your time.” He said, “You knew a Marissa Carter did you not?”  
I was taken aback and nodded. 

“Yeah, I rode the bus with her in the mornings.” He nodded several times before continuing.  


“Early Friday afternoon, her housemaid found her dead in the bedroom of her apartment.” He told me. I didn’t react. I mean, death is a part of life and it was almost as if, I knew. “We went to her ex-husband's house to read the will, only to find that no one in her family has any claims on her inheritance. Ms. Jane Watson, you are the sole proprietor of the Carter Estate and Inheritance.”  



	19. Book V: Inheritance

After the Lawyer left, I stared at the manilla envelope he had pulled out of the briefcase. He told me that he ex-husband wished to speak with me and wrote the contact information on the back of the envelope. Sherlock, for one, seemed generally interested.  


“Why didn’t you tell me you met a rich American with large amounts of land in England?” He asked.  


“I did, you just weren't listening.” I responded, handing over the envelope. I ripped open the top flap and pulled out the letter at the top. It was handwritten and at the top in obviously fresher ink, was my name. ‘Ms. Jane Watson is to be the sole proprietor of my inheritance.’ It read, it went into detail down at the bottom, a house. Worth several, several thousand pounds. The amount continued to increase, a summer home, a boat, several cars, along with an entire estate.  


“There’s no way.” I said, handing the letter over to Sherlock, he looked over it and touched the ink with a finger.  


“Definitely suspicious.” He said.  


“I mean, I just got an inheritance that’s worth more than me!” I said. Sherlock flipped the manilla envelope over and pulled out some pictures, without looking at them he tapped the number.  


“I guess we better contact him then.” He said.  


Later that day we pulled over a taxi and gave him the address for a cafe a few miles from our flat. He was insistent that we didn’t meet at his home, or really anywhere near it. He chose an obscure cafe on the other side, though for what purpose, we weren’t sure besides the fact it let us know that something was definitely off. When we pulled up to the cafe, I handed some coins to the driver and headed inside. Though the weather outside was cold, the building did little to heat us up. I decided against ordering anything, the bar section of the cafe was covered with grime. A man stood up and greeted us from a nearby booth,  


“You must be Ms. Watson!” He exclaimed. He was a lanky man with dark hair that was extremely greasy. Sherlock wrinkled his nose for a second before resuming the air of indifference. He gestured to the booth and we sat down. He folded his hands which were shaky. His eyes were slightly off-kilter and I could tell that Sherlock had come to the same conclusion minutes before. Alcoholic.  


“You wished to speak with me?” I said, sliding into the inside of the booth.  


“Yes.” He said, nodding his head. “Are you two together?” He asked, flicking a finger at the space between Sherlock and I.  


“No. Let’s get back to the subject, what…”  


“Good. Relationships are never a good idea. Never last.” He said. “Yes, yes, yes. About the inheritance.”  


“What can you tell me about your relationship with Marissa Carter?” Sherlock asked. Her Ex-husband put fingers to his eyes and applied pressure, rubbing his hands over his pale face. He might have been attractive if he had a better air and looked like he actually took care of himself.  


“We were married for five years,” He began “Then, she kept creeping around. Didn’t want to leave the room.” He paused for a second. “She didn’t do anything. I went to work. I made money even though with her cash I shouldn’t have had to. What a pig. The ideal example of slothful.” He spat. Sherlock looked him over.  


“What about the divorce?” I asked. He looked at me and ran his tongue over his lips again.  


“That happened right after our five year anniversary. She kept complaining and broke it off. I only signed the papers ‘cause she paid me to. I came over to the house every once and a while to make sure she was okay.” He paused and gathered his thoughts. “Anyways. I heard, that all that inheritance. All that untapped potential, went to a Doctor. A nobody. So, I thought, hey, a little bit of persuasion and the inheritance can go to it’s rightful proprietor.”  


“How come in five years you didn’t have a child?” I asked, overlooking the ‘nobody’ part of his little speech.  


“We did. He died. But it didn’t really matter, I don’t think it was mine.” He leaned over the table and looked at me. Sherlock stood up and gestured for me to follow. He headed out of the Cafe and Mr. Carter tried to call after us. Sherlocks lip curled and he stopped, reached into my pocket and grabbed my phone, dialing a number.  


“Lestrade.” He said. I simply listened. “There’s a man in the Hartman Cafe now who you will find has been abusing his divorced wife. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was involved in any other cases…. Just pick him up Lestrade I know it’s Sunday... I didn’t say you had to come do it yourself.” He flipped the phone shut and handed the phone back. He began to walk down the street at a brisk pace and I jogged to catch up with him.  


“That went well.” I said, and though it sounded somewhat sarcastic, it was sincere.  


“What were you waiting for? It was fairly obvious what his intentions were.” He said.  


“I was waiting for him to pull out his gun so I’d have an excuse to break his wrist.” I said. Sherlock smirked and looked at me.  


“Now all I need is a good case.” He said with a smile, as if reminiscing about some fantastic serial killer that was coming. “And Jane.” He said. I looked up at him and hummed. “You’re not a nobody.”  


I smiled and nodded and waited for a taxi to pull up along the curb. Sherlock opened the door, but this time held it there. I slid into the seat and across into the spot Sherlock usually took in a cab. I looked out the back window to see a cop car pull up to the cafe as the taxi began to pull away.  


Back at the flat Sherlock stood there as I pulled off my shoes.  


“Jane.” He said. I looked up and pulled my hair out of my eyes. “I’m sorry.” I paused for a moment and let it sink in. Sherlock, was apologizing?  


“What for?” I asked, standing up.  


“I haven’t been… well…. I guess things just haven’t gone my way… our way lately.” He said and my eyes flicked towards the spot where the knife had hit the wall before.  


“Apology accepted.” I said, pulling off my second shoe. I walked up to Sherlock and stood in front of him. I still sometimes marveled at our height differences and how blue Sherlock's eyes really were. “I’m just about used to it now.” I turned and walked to the stairs. “Thank you Sherlock.” I said.  


“For what?” He asked.  


“For everything.”


	20. Book VI: Last Wish

Jane’s POV  


I’d never thought about last words, about words in general. Their meaning, how they were used. At least until I heard the last words. And then the fall. Then after the Fall. There was nothing after the fall. Everyday. I sat in my chair. Waiting. Waiting for him to burst through the front door yelling me to come on a case with him. Shadows danced on the walls, sometimes taking the shapes of people or objects. I stopped going to work, it was impossible. I had a panic attack. My PTSD came back. Often the shadows took shape of them. The people. I slipped on one of my last clean pairs of pants and put on an oversized sweater and slipped on a pair of old shoes. I went down to an old place that he and I had never been. It was clean and within walking distance. I sat in my spot at the bar and ordered what had become my usual. I drank it and watched a sport game I didn’t care about. I didn’t care about much of anything anymore. He hadn’t seemed to realize how much he meant, how many times I’d wanted to do what he did. I’d stopped going to the graveyard after a few days. After the grief had turned mostly to bitterness and anger. I drank another and the news came on. Reports about his suicide still flashed on the screen. At first the internet blew up. ‘It’s not possible’ ‘He’s a fake’ ‘He’s not dead’ ‘What led him to this?’. For all the questions, I didn’t have any answers. I was just one of the ones left behind. Suicides never kill one person. I drank another and asked the bartender to turn off the T.V. I drank another and laid my head on the counter. Someone asked my something and I slowly raised my head to answer. Instead of speaking, I stared at them. Just another face, another face. Why would he leave me like this? I slapped a bunch of notes on the counter and stepped out onto the darkening street. This used to be the perfect hour. The hour of night. Now it was just another night, leading to another day, leading to another night. I stumbled into the flat and looked around. The living room, the kitchen, the bedroom. I hated it. I marched upstairs and grabbed some boxes. I threw in all the files he left on the desk. All the cases, solved or otherwise. Lestrade had given me his phone, I threw it away. I stripped pictures off the wall and threw them into another box. I walked into the kitchen with an open garbage bag and swept the chemicals into the bag. A wet drop fell onto my hand and I realized that I was crying. I wiped my eye and moved to the fridge. Everything. Everything had to go. I swept experiments and old food into the bag. I opened cupboard and swept the contents into the bag. Everything. Everything had to go. After the living room was cleared and hefted up the boxes and walked to Sherlock's room. I’d never been in his room. It was neat, a made bed and pressed clothes hanging in the closet. Any moment he’d come through the door. He’d apologize. Apologize for everything. Everything. Everything had to go. I threw the clothes into the box and any other books or such that he left were put in a box. The boxes shut in the closet. I walked back into the living room and realized I left the violin. It was in its case by his music stand. I kneeled down next to it. I pushed away another tear and shut and case, locking the clasps. I grabbed the stand and threw it into the closet. Into the closet. Into the dark. I locked the door to the closet but left the key to the door hanging on the knob. None of his family had come to claim anything. I walked up to my room. I laid on the bed. Watching, waiting, hoping. I walked down stairs and standing in the living room, I noticed something I never had. A floorboard. Just slightly out of place. The edges soft. I picked it up and underneath, found his stash.  


The sun blared and flashed in my eyes through the open window. I took my medication and a supplement that was supposed to help. Lestrade had dealt with the drugs. I picked up the last of my things and put them in a box at the foot of my bed. I took the box out and called a taxi. I left a note for Ms. Hudson that I wouldn’t be coming back to 221B Baker Street. The taxi pulled up at a new flat, more modern. Clean. When I stepped inside I looked around the small one bedroom apartment. It had a small table with three chairs and a clean modernized kitchen. The bedroom was small, comprising of a bed and a bedside table. I put my things around the flat, trying to make it feel like home. Instead, it felt like I was staying in a stranger's house. Income came in from renting out my Estate. Though, after, I sold it. For a good amount of cash too. The new flat was the product. That and a new job. I was trying again at civilian life. Once after the war, again after another war. I scanned the small room and sat in one of the chairs.


	21. Book VI: Last Wish

DIFFERENT POV 

“How is she doing?” 

“She moved out today” 

“And now?” 

“She’s just sitting there staring at the wall.” Mycroft bent over and looked at the screen. Jane had her back to the screen and was just sitting there, unmoving. 

“She’s recovered.” 

“As much as she will.”He was quiet for a minute until the other man spoke. 

“What should we tell him?” 

“Tell him she’s fine. Under no circumstances are you to tell him what happened.” Mycroft said, turning back to the screen. 

Jane’s POV 

I heard a door open behind me and turned. The door was open and a man was standing there. As they approached their features changed. A young man, wearing an army uniform was standing in front of me. 

“Reporting for duty.” He said, saluting. 

“Good work. Report to camp 3A.” I told him. Suddenly a bullet ripped through his chest. Blood poured through the hole. 

“Jason!” I yelled. He dropped to the ground. Dead. His body faded away as if he’d never lived in the first place, his face replaced by another. Names and dates flooded my head. Jason Dupt. November 14th, 2005. Deceased. I melted into a pool of tears, I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t save him. I wasn’t fast enough. I wasn’t strong enough. I wasn’t smart enough. 

Jason’s shade followed my around the flat, outside, to work. Just a little shadow that pulsed behind the eyes, waiting, waiting, waiting. I pulled myself out of a stupor and made my way to the front of the office to pick up another file. Another patient. Another problem. Medicine seemed to be the only thing to fall back on. After all, I’d spent my life just to earn the title ‘doctor’. The slot was empty and the lady behind the desk was packing her things. Time seemed to slip away, patients blending together. I made my way back to my office and picked up a bag from the floor. Besides the panic attacks and sometimes my PTSD, it was like the past couple of years had never happened and for some reason, I was okay with it. 

I walked into my flat and put my bag and keys on the hook. I paused a moment when I noticed a shadow on the floor. I reached for the gun when I noticed a familiar yet unwelcome face. 

“Mycroft.” I said. He nodded and attempted a smile. 

“Jane.” He said, taking a couple of steps forward. “How have you been?” 

“Fine.” I answered. Mycroft made a sound, like the cross between a laugh and a sigh. 

“I mean since Sherlock committed suicide. I wasn’t asked about today, I was generalizing.” 

“Fine.” 

“I wouldn’t call your condition ‘fine’” 

“You asked me how I felt, don’t make assumptions. If you’re here to judge me, you can leave.” 

“I just came to drop something off and see how you where.” 

“I’m sure you did. Since when did the Holmes boys care about how anyone felt.” I rubbed my face. “Get out.” 

“Jane. You can’t keep…” 

“Yes! Yes I can! Now get out of my bloody flat Mycroft!” I yelled. Mycroft slunk towards the door and slipped it through. I put my coat on the rack, and threw my shoes into a small cubby. I’d become a lot more organized now that I didn’t share a flat. Everything had a place and nothing even left. A brown package sat on the small table. I threw it away, not bothering to unwrap the brown paper. I was done with them. I opened my phone and blocked Mycroft's number. I threw my phone onto the counter and skipped dinner. I tended to make food, but now, I practically longed for a microwave meal. I went into the small room and changed into different clothes, setting the dirty ones into a sack in the closet. I laid down on the bed, somewhat glad that the next day wasn’t a week day.


	22. Book VI: Last Wish

Mycroft POV 

“How did she take it?” 

“She was… abrasive.” 

“And the gift?” 

“I don’t know, didn’t stay long enough to find out.” 

“Can’t you use one of your magic cameras?” 

“She found most of them. The ones she didn’t couldn’t see her.” 

“So she’s doing well.” 

“Yes, she’s doing just fine.” 

Janes POV 

I dropped onto the couch and set my phone down on one of the cushions. The date was fun, I guess as fun as it gets. I was wearing a black dress that stopped just above my knees. It was fairly loose but well fitting, with long lace sleeves cutting off at the elbow. I liked him, at least I was pretty sure that I did. He was kind, gentlemanly, and a good listener. It was a gloriously cool friday night, and though the lights of the city were bright, you could still see the stars. My phone dinged and I saw a number that I hadn’t seen in a while. Lestrade. I wasn’t sure if I was excited or disappointed. 

[Could you do me a favor?] 

[Depends on what it is] 

[I just need your help for one little case.] 

[You know how I feel about going on cases now Greg.] 

[Oh, come on. It’ll just be one case, if you can call it that.] 

[Why do you really need my help?] 

[There’s a starting off detective, he won’t get off my back. I just need someone who can guide him a little tomorrow.] 

[Why don’t you make Anders do it?] 

[I already have. Come on Jane, please. Just one little case.] 

[Fine.] 

__I sighed and plugged my phone in. A case. Tomorrow. In the back of my mind, a spark of excitement lighted but I went to bed apprehensive._ _

__The next morning I woke up early, went for a run and showered. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a long sleeve T-shirt from university. I pulled on a pair of casual sneakers and went outside. I called a taxi and made my way to the station. When I walked in all eyes seemed to be on me. I used to be a frequent, though always accompanied by a tall companion. I made my way to Lestrade’s office and knocked on the door._ _

__“Dawson! I swear, if you ask one more time when she’ll be here I’ll wring your neck!” Lestrade yelled. I opened the door and Lestrade paused._ _

__“Geez Lestrade, where is this kid.” I said. He stood up and gave me a quick hug._ _

__“It’s good to see you.” He said. I attempted a smile and followed him out of the office. A young man was standing at the end of the hall. He had longish brown hair that looked like it had been curled at the ends. He turned to Lestrade as we approached him. He looked to be younger than me and was not that much taller than I was._ _

__“Finally.” He said, putting out his hand. “Dawson Fair.” I shook his hand._ _

__“Jane Watson.” I said. Lestrade then spoke._ _

__“Really, all your job is is to babysit this kid today.” He said to me. Dawson frowned. “I’ll call you if something come up.” He left and Dawson gestured to what could be called an office. It was shabby and had a small, worn desk in the end of the room._ _

__“They haven’t moved me into my real office so, we just get to hang out in here.” He said. I doubted his words. The place didn’t even have a door. If anything, they’d just clean it up and give him this room. “So, you’re the Jane Watson.” He said._ _

__“I hardly think that I’m The Jane Watson.” I responded._ _

__“Jane Watson, companion of Sherlock Holmes until he committed suicide by jumping off a building several years ago. Sherlock Holmes and Jane Watson solved over…” He began to recite as if he’d memorized it from the internet. I put my hand up to stop him. No one seemed to care about the shadow he cast until it was gone._ _

__“Stop. Just stop.” I said, looking at him, though I could see him churning questions like they all do._ _

__It look Lestrade a couple of hours to find us something to do. A simple case really, a car crash. Though I didn’t understand why a detective needed to go to a car accident, Dawson was eager to go anyways. A small black car was smashed in the front, the airbags sagging over the front console. The entire front window was smashed and the windows on the door had spiderwebbed and cracked. Dawson walked over to the car and inspected the inside, being overly dramatic. I stood next to Lestrade and watched him._ _

__“So, what’s the problem?” I asked him._ _

__“He should be able to identify that there is no problem with the vehicle besides the fact that it’s smashed. We’re just seeing how long it takes him to realize it.” He said, watching Dawson circle the car, looking at tires and insignificant pieces of glass._ _

__“So why am I here.” I asked_ _

__“Maybe I wanted some company, or maybe I thought it’d be good for you.” He said with a smile. Finally Dawson trotted over with a strange look._ _

__“I haven’t found anything wrong with the car.” He said. Lestrade stared him. I gestured to him to continue. The job of detectives was to tell others what happened, not to ask questions. “So… you want me to…. Um…” He started, having no idea what he was supposed to be looking over._ _

__“The purpose of looking at the car crash was to gauge how bad it was, what he really wants you to look at is at a different location but you need the backstory before you can solve whatever he needs you to look over.” I said. Dawson stood dumbfounded and Lestrade spoke._ _

__“Exactly. Now, would you like to see the scene?” He asked. Dawson nodded and followed Lestrade._ _

__“That was amazing. How did you know that that was what he wanted me to see?” Dawson asked._ _

__“I’ve done this for a while. A Detective's job is not to ask questions but to anticipate and answer them.” I told him._ _

__“Wow. You’re really good at this. It must have been amazing working with Sherlock.”_ _

__“Quite.”_ _


	23. Book VI: Last Wish

The real scene was not far away, an ambulance was pulled off to the side of the road, the large bay doors opened. The car was surrounded by Officers and as we approached, Dawson stared fumbling for something in his pocket. I was walking ahead of both Lestrade and Dawson and grabbed the tape, pulling it over my head. Lestrade followed. Dawson stood behind and we turned to watch him as he stood on the other side of the line looking for something in his jacket. 

“Problem Dawson?” Lestrade asked. 

“I can’t find my ID…” He said. 

“Just go under the tape Fair!” He said, exasperated. He continued to fumble in his jacket. 

“Dawson! You don’t need you’re bloody ID, they know who you are, you work in the same building! Now get over here!” I yelled. Dawson hesitated and crossed the line, he looked over his shoulder, almost afraid that they would tackle him and drag him away. Lestrade gestured to the ambulance. 

“Man driving the black car had a broken leg and a possible concussion when we got to the accident. They put him in this ambulance and a couple minutes later, dead.” He said. Dawson was wide eyed and looked over the whole ambulance. I stepped into the ambulance and looked over instruments and technology. Finally I noticed the fluid bags. They were labeled wrong. I picked up a bag with sedative and realized that the smell was off. It wasn’t sedative. I looked at the file of the man who’d died. Minor allergy to pain medication when he was six. Boom. Case solved. Minor allergy gets worse as you age, allergy that hasn’t been noticed comes back after a car accident. Nurses don’t know what to do and treat him wrong. Dead. I stepped outside and stood next to Lestrade. 

“You’ve already solved this one.” I said. “Why’d you call Dawson?” 

“To see if he could solve it.” He answered. 

“It wasn’t that hard.” 

“Sherlock wouldn’t have even been bothered with this one.” Lestrade said, glancing at me after the corner of his eye. 

About ten to fifteen minutes later Dawson stepped out of the ambulance. He was holding a syringe in his hand. He came over and showed it to us. 

“Here we are.” He said, excitedly. “This needle was used to try to sedate him but instead it carried something worse.” He hesitated, then whispered, “Murder.” I couldn’t help it and started to laugh. “What?” He asked. “What’s so funny?” 

“That’s not it, Dawson.” I told him. “The bags were mislabeled and they gave him very strong pain relievers he was allergic to. You’re body goes into shock, and dead.” I said, laughing at Dawson. Lestrade then chimed. 

“Plus, you would've just touched the evidence.” He said. Dawson looked down at the forlorn needle in his hand. His face turned red and I looked at my watch. I put a hand on Dawson's shoulder. 

“You’ll get it.” I said. He tried to smile, but failed. We headed back to the office building and Dawson stopped me outside the doors. 

“Jane.” He said. “I really liked working for you, and I mean. If you’re willing, you could be my partner.” Partner. Not assistant, not friend. Partner. 

“No.” I said. 

“Oh, come on!! Don’t you miss all the adventures you had with Sherlock!! Don’t you want to do that again!!” He exclaimed. The shades pushed at my eyelids again. 

“No Dawson.” I told him. 

“Please.” He asked. 

“No.” I answered. I began to walk down the street and Dawson yelled so I could hear him. 

“Why don’t you want that? We can continue the old crime solving team, Sherlock and Watson...!!” He said, running to catch up and putting a hand on my shoulder. I shrugged him off. 

“If he was here, I’d tell him the same thing. I’m done, I let go. It’s time everyone else did too. The world doesn’t need another Sherlock.” I said, turned my back and getting into a cab. Later that night I texted Lestrade. 

[Don’t ask me to do a case again.]


	24. Book VII: Dead End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm back. Honestly, I've been working on these last parts for a while and fell into quite a deep writers rut. I debated on ending the story with chapter 23, but felt that with all the work that I've put into it, you guys deserve to see it. Some of the following chapters connect with the BBC Sherlock show, so I hope there's enough original ideas that you guys still like it. Without, further complications (hopefully), Book VII!!

Sherlocks POV 

It wasn’t right. This wasn’t a reunion of friends. It was more like two strangers trying to be friends. A punch in the face. That was what I got. All the time I’d been gone, I couldn’t shake her eyes, how desperate and sad they had looked when I last saw them. I wasn’t sure what I had expected when I saw them again, but they. They looked empty, like shattered glass marbles. Now here we were. Or, here I was. Standing outside the third place we’d been to. Her new boyfriend had stayed besides the fact Jane told him he could leave. I’d tried explaining, knowing that that would be what she wanted but instead all I got was an ‘I don’t care how you did it.’ The third place wasn’t far from the flat and I was somewhat surprised when Jane turned and walked the other way when she told me they were leaving. He boyfriend had promised that she’d come around, but I found as she walked away that I didn’t recognise her gait and when I tried to deduce her, all I came up with was blanks. I walked back to the flat, knowing that eventually she’d come around and I’d be able to explain. A bit exasperated, I walked up the stairs and opened up the door to the flat only to find it covered in a fine layer of dust. Chairs and counters looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in at least a week. Everything was missing. The violin, papers, cups, plates, the entire room was bare. A old looking piece of paper was sitting on the kitchen table, the end tinged where someone had rubbed them. Maybe two or three years old though it looked like it was frequently picked up and moved. On the paper and Jane’s curved, elegant handwriting was written.  


“Dear Ms. Hudson, I’ve put all of his things into the closet of his room and you’ll find that I’ve cleaned up my room as well. I can’t live here anymore. It reeks. Inside the envelope you’ll find my last rent payment. You may rent out the flat again as I don’t suspect that I will be returning. You can forward any of my mail to the enclosed address.” I opened my the new cell phone and dialed Mycroft's number, he picked up on the third ring.  


“Having problems already Brother mine?” He asked.  


“What else didn’t you tell me?” I asked.  


“Oh. You’re at the flat.” He stated, I could hear the strain in his voice and could feel his own apprehension. “Well. I don’t know if you want to know. I mean privacy and all.” He said.  


“Tell me. Since when did you care about privacy?” I said.  


“I’ll send someone over tomorrow to pick you up.” He said and the line clicked closed. I walked into my bedroom to find the whole room swept clean. A small key was hanging on the door knob and I when I unlocked the doors I found my things unceremoniously thrown into the closet. I sat on the bed and thought about all the things that could have potentially happened in the years I was gone.


	25. Book VII: Dead End

Mycroft's man pulled up in front of the house at about 11:00 and drove me to one of his headquarters. It was a large, elegant building and if Mycroft was going for ambiguous, he failed. For once, I’d slept. My bed had felt lumpy and uncomfortable or rather too comfortable and I couldn’t help but wonder if it was how soldiers felt when they came back. I might have told Jane about it, but when I’d woken up, I’d laid awake, waiting to hear the creek of the floorboards that never came. I walked inside the large building to find Lestrade sitting in one of the chairs reading a newspaper. He looked up and smiled. His hair was considerably grayer than I remembered. He stood up and clasped my shoulder. 

“Good to see you old friend. Though I wish it wasn’t under certain circumstances. I’ve got cases for you… if you’re interested.” He said with a laugh, leading me into an office room in the back. Mycroft was sitting at a desk and was pulling out a file. I reached for it but he pulled it away. 

“I didn’t say you got to see this.” He said, dropping it on the desk. A small T.V was propped up on a small table in the corner. Mycroft gestured to the two chairs and I sat down, once again feeling too comfortable. Mycroft gestured to Lestrade. “Why don’t you start?” He said. Lestrade shook his head. 

“I still think this is a bad idea. I promised not to tell anyone and the last thing I need is an ex-military soldier coming for my hide.” He said. I waited. Mycroft sighed and opened the file. 

“Fine. Not long after you ‘died’, she took up old drinking habits. A small pub a couple of blocks down from the flat was good enough, seeing as you’ve never been to it. After that, it didn’t take long for her to decide she didn’t want to stay in the flat.” He flipped on the screen of the television and a fuzzy image of Jane appeared. She stumbled into the flat and looked around like she was lost. She disappeared off camera and a small crash came from the kitchen. She came back moments later, face blank, and started throwing things into boxes. I watched as she hauled items out of the living room, only pausing to pick up my violin and put it in the case. The camera went dark. “The important thing was what happened after that. She found your stash.” He said. I balked for a moment. My stash? How on earth had she managed to find it? 

“She reported it and brought it in.” Lestrade finally said, “That is two days after she found it.” 

“We don’t know if she used it or not, but we do now that afterwards she started getting worse.” 

“How much worse?” 

“Panic attacks, PTSD, hallucinations.” Mycroft listed. “Grief and stress induced hallucinations.” I leaned back in my chair, it was worse. Worse than I thought. I thought, well I guess I thought she would let go. It was clear she had let go, but how long did it take her? 

“I asked her to go on a case once.” Lestrade put in, swallowing hard. Mycroft looked up, 

“How come I was not informed of this?” He said. 

“Because you don’t need to be informed about everything that happens in everyone's bloody lives.” He snapped before calming back down. “She didn’t take it well, but in the end, I think it helped her.” I stood up and walked to the door, ready to do the one thing I didn’t think I’d ever do again. Apologise.


	26. Book VII: Dead End

I stopped in front of one of the newer, more modern flats. The walls were painted white, contrasting the dusky colored buildings surrounding it. I clicked the button to ring the bell for Janes flat and backed up a step. I looked up the building, trying to guess which flat might be hers, deducing the people that left things out on the balconies of the flats. Finally the door buzzed and unlocked. I walked up one flights of stairs and moved all the way down hall to her room. I knocked on the door and I heard rummaging inside before I heard her call, 

“Come in!” She called from the otherside of the door. I stepped into the flat. It was a clean, one bedroom apartment. The walls were pretty bare, a couple of photos were on a small table by small couch. There was a small coffee table that worked as a kitchen table though it only had three chairs around it. A white kitchen glistened in the back. Jane disappeared into her room, a bundle of laundry in her arms. She came back and stopped in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She was taller now, her hair was longer. She looked older, wearing a pair of jeans rolled up to the ankle and a dark green sweater. I gulped, for once feeling unnerved. For all the time I’d spent with her, I never found her hard to deduce. Though she always told me not to, I didn’t think it mattered much anymore. 

“I can’t believe it.” She whispered. 

“Jane….” I started. She put a hand up, telling me to stop. 

“Who knew?” She asked. Thoughts rolled around in my head, truth, lies, mix of both? 

“Mycroft, my parents, Lestrade… The homeless network.” 

“The whole network.” 

“Yes...” 

“You trusted a whole network of homeless people before you trusted me?!” She criticized. 

“It would have put you in danger.” I tried to tell her. 

“I was already in danger Sherlock! Don’t you get that!” Her eyes started to water. “You left me!” 

“Jane… I came to say I’m sorry…” I said. 

“Sorry? Sorry for what?” She said. I gulped. 

“I’m sorry... I didn’t trust you.” I practically pleaded. 

“It doesn’t change much of anything.” She said, she stepped closer. For a second, I thought she was going to reach out and touch my arm. Instead, she stopped and looked at me, not daring to move any closer. “But no matter how much I hate you, I’m glad you’re back.” She said with a sad smile. I stood up a little bit straighter and she walked into the kitchen, pulling out a mug. 

I sat at one of chairs around the small coffee table. Papers and books were neatly stacked at one end. I glanced at the titles of a few of them. 

“Phycology. Jespers Theory for Synchronous Diaphragmatic Flutter.” I read off. Jane shrugged her shoulders. 

“Light reading.” She said. 

“About hiccups?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. She let out a small laugh and my breathing hitched a little. It’s been a long time since I heard her laugh. Too long. 

“It’s interesting.” She said. We sat and she drank her tea in silence. The clock ticked away and Jane looked over at the clock once her second cup was drained. “Shouldn’t you be getting back to the flat?” I looked back up at the clock, realizing how late it was in the day and that the fact that this wasn’t our flat. 

PART II: 

A couple weeks later I opened up my phone, Lestrade turned to me. 

“Are you sure?” He asked. 

“Positive.” I told him. I pulled up Jane’s number, the one thing that she hadn’t changed over the years. 

[Important case, Meet me at Lestrade’s building.] 

[Define important.] 

[I’d rate it at least a 6] 

[Be there in ten] 

I flipped the phone closed. 

“I win” I said, Lestrade groaned and pulled out a note and slapped it into my palm. I put it in my pocket and followed Lestrade down the hall. It’d been considerably better since I’d met with her and I refrained from figuring out what she was doing and had been while I was gone. Lestrade opened the door to a small office at the end, a man stood up from behind an old looking desk. His long brown hair fell into his eyes and forced him to sweep it out of his face. No wedding ring, little to no tan, polished shoes, shirt looking a bit disheveled. Not married, but dating often. Doesn’t go and do anything much, no vacations. Shirt was disheveled probably because of the amount of files on his desk. 

“Dawson.” Lestrade said, “Mind if we borrow some files?” He asked, striding over to the desk. He gaped as Lestrade picked up a stack of three or four files. 

“You’re… you’re….” He stumbled. 

“I’m your boss, and I’m taking these files.” Lestrade said, knowing that he wasn’t referring to himself. Suddenly a voice spoke up from behind me. 

“Did I miss anything?” Jane said. I turned. 

“Excellent.” I said. “Lestrade, finish grabbing your files.” 

“Oh, hey Dawson.” Jane called as we left Dawson in his cupboard of an office. 

“You know Dawson?” I asked. Jane shrugged, she looked better. The rings around her eyes were beginning to fade. 

“I did a case with him.” She stated. I looked over at Lestrade who also shrugged. 

“I needed another set of eyes and another person to put him back in his place.” He said. 

“So, what’s the files?” She questioned. 

“Everything above a five in the past month.” He said. He stepped into his office and slid a file over. “We have one that I figured it was better you two look at.” I opened the familiar crisp manilla envelope open and read it over. Danna Turner, age 42. Lestrade started to recite everything they knew about her. 

“Danna Turner, almost 43 years old when a month ago she was found with her throat slit in her flat. Dawson tried to tell me it was suicide, but we hardly had any suicide cases since… you get the idea.” 

“So how is this a 6?” Jane asked. 

“It’s the other cases that make it a six. A week after Danna Turner died, Kennedy Blanken died, age 27.” He said, handing me the case for Kennedy Blanken. I handed the other file to Jane. “A week after that, Coleen Harp died, age 36.” He said, handing me over, yet another file. 

“What’s the tie?” Jane asked. 

“It’s a small one but your brother is convinced it’s something more.” Lestrade said, nodding over to me. “Danna Turner died a week before you came back.” We set all three cases on the desk and looked between them. Lestrade circled some information, physical description. Danna Turner: 5’3”, dirty blonde, grey eyes. Kennedy Blanken: 5’4”, blonde, blue eyes. Coleen Harp: 5’4”, blonde, hazel eyes. I looked over at Jane, trying to gauge her height, definitely around the 5’3”, 5’4” area. Dirty blonde, hazel eyes that sometimes were inexplicably blue. I glanced at Lestrade. Jane tapped the file of Coleen Harp with a finger. 

“She was one of my clients once when I worked with Ben and Sue.” she said. 

“How long ago was that?” Lestrade asked for me. 

“A couple months ago.” She said, looking up. “Nice lady.” Lestrade fingered the last file in his hand and continued to de-brief us. 

“The worst one was one from yesterday, Mycroft made sure that none of these cases hit the public too hard, trying to keep it on the down low. All of the victims had their throats cut open, this one was a bit… messier.” He flipped open the file and laid it on top of the others. “Mariah Jacks, age 32. Found in the London Metro.” He said. Jane gulped and flipped through the photos, a college grad photo, someone who obviously was her brother, and finally, her body. Where others might have cringed, looked away, or thrown up, Jane looked right at it. I unclipped the physical description and looked it over. Suddenly, a phone rang. Jane hurriedly reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. 

“Marcus! I’m really sorry I totally spaced we were doing that tonight!” She slipped the bag further up her shoulder and moved away from the desk. “I’m really sorry, just give me 10 min and we might be able to salvage dinner. Ok, see you then.” She hung up the phone and put it in her coat pocket. She turned to me and smiled, “I’m really sorry, I forgot Mark and I were going to have dinner tonight. If you two need anything just call me and I’ll come right back.” She called, running out the door. 

“That’s new.” Lestrade said, the tense air dispersing. 

“What?” 

“Usually you’re the one to leave her on a case.” He said, looking up from the files. “Come on, you can’t see the body, but I did get my hands on an autopsy.” 

“Do you really think this connects to her?” 

“Mycroft's pretty positive. He won’t be happy that we showed the files to her, but he can go sh…” 

“But why?” I interrupted 

“Who knows. All we know if that their descriptions match pretty much to the letter.” Lestrade said, pulling out yet another folder. This one was colored, with notes attached to various pages. It was much thicker than the others. He handed it over and I flipped it over and was met by a picture of Jane from the military. 

“How’d you get this.” 

“Your brother keeps files on everyone.” He answered tapping the physical description page. 5’3 ½”, dirty blonde, hazel eyes. The consistencies were there, the question was why?


	27. Book VII: Dead End

Jane continued to help me on the case, setting up Lestrade's office like it was our flat. He’d found a cork board for us to use instead of sticking pictures to the wall. Jane showed up in a pair of pail blue scrubs and I raised an eyebrow. 

“Surgery today.” She said, rolling her eyes before going to the bathroom to change. We put up pictures of each of the victims as well as clips of the testimonies of their family. Jane had even gone to find string so we could string the pictures to places on a map as well as different colored pins. Jane came back wearing jeans and a t-shirt and dropped her bag in the corner of the room. Lestrade was off fixing something and the room was eerily quiet. I sat in one of the chairs we’d dragged from another office and thought over each situation while Jane marked where they lived and where they were murdered on the map. The door creaked open and a mop of brown hair stuck through the door. 

“I was wondering if you needed any assistance?” Dawson Fair asked, slipping through the door. Jane didn’t give me a opportunity to tell him to leave before she answered him. 

“Sure…” 

“Fantastic!” Dawson exclaimed, coming completely into the room and shutting the door behind him. He walked over to the board and looked at the pictures Jane had posted. He tapped one of them and broke the carefully built silence of the room. “I don’t know why you’re looking at this one, I already closed it.” He said proudly, puffing his chest. He unwound the string from the board and took out one of the pins. “It was a suicide. It was actually quite obvious actually.” He glanced in my direction and I glared at him until he fell quiet. I went back into my mind palace. Several times when I went into my mind palace, other people would be there. Giving me ideas and points, talking to me when I was away. I’d become used to a small, rational voice in my head. 

“Does he always do that?” Dawson whispered, leaning towards Jane. Annoyed, Jane reached over and took a picture out of his hand. 

“Yes. I need this, the case is not closed and I need to see this all together.” She said, trying to be kind. Dawson watched as she put the pictures back up and looped string to a pin. She back up and then turned to me. 

“There’s not any geographic ties, the killings were found all over the city but have only happened in London.” She said with a frown. “The only thing we have to go off is the description.” I looked at the map, trying to find some of the nearly invisible ties between them. None. 

“That’s because they’re not connected.” Dawson said. “I don’t get why you’re looking at these, I already closed them.” 

“Get out.” I said. Dawson blanched looking both amazed that I’d spoken to him and intimidated. 

“But…” He started saying. 

“Get out.” I repeated, my mind searching. Dawson was annoying, always asking stupid questions. The only person who probably could tolerate him was Anders. The two of them could lower the IQ of the whole world. 

“Please.” Jane added, trying to add some nice though I knew she shared my irritance. Dawson slunk to the door. 

“I…well I… I’ll be in my…” He stumbled before Jane closed the door behind him. 

“He’s like the Anders of this department.” She said and I smirked, turning back to the board. There was no connection. Nothing at all. Just a couple physical descriptions. 

After a couple of hours of staring at the board, my phone dinged. 

[Mycroft solved it, don’t worry about it] 

[What was it? I need more than that.] 

[Don’t worry about it. Want more? Ask him yourself.] 

I sighed and closed the phone, he knew I'd rather stab Mycroft than ask him for help. I looked over at Jane, she was pulling her hair back into a ponytail, the front hairs kept slipping and falling in her face. 

“Mycroft worked it out.” I told her. She looked up and finished tying her hair up. 

“Oh, was there any connection?” She asked, standing up. 

“I don’t think so.” I lied. “Mycroft’s just being a pansy.” Jane nodded and grabbed her bag, something I still wasn’t used to seeing her carry. 

“I’m famished,” She said, then muttered “I’ll have to run and get more food before I head back to the flat.” 

“We’ll stop at Baker Street before you go.” I said. Jane’s face shadowed before clearing. 

“Sure. I don’t think I’m on shift tomorrow.” She said, following me out of Lestrade's office. We went out on the street and called for a cab, Jane slid into the cab and laid her bag on her lap while I relaid the address. 

When we pulled out in front of the flat, Jane got out, the previous hesitation gone. I walked in front of her and opened the door to the long locked flat. Some surfaces were still covered in dust. I’d taken things out of the boxes I found locked away in my closet and had slowly begun to rebuild the flat. The bullet holes had been filled in on one wall, small pieces of plaster ruining the smooth finish of the paper. Items were scattered around the room and I pushed some of the items away as I reached for the old tea kettle. I set it on the burner and began to boil the water. Since most of the furniture was still covered with white tarp, Jane pulled around one of the wooden chairs from the table. Straddling it, she laid her head on the top of the chair and watched me. I went about making tea, pretending not to notice her. I set down the cup of tea and Jane swished and dunked a bag into the water. 

“It was nice today.” She said, looking up at me. I nodded and turned back to my own cup. She leaned back and looked around the still baren flat. “If you need any help putting this place back together I’d be glad to help.” She told me. I looked around the flat, the covered furniture, the bare, clean walls. The place didn’t feel whole until now. 

“I’ll probably just have Ms. Hudson do it.” I said with a smile. 

“Not unless you want her to cuff your ear you won’t.” Jane said with a small laugh. 

“Or I’ll make Mycroft hire someone.” 

“I’m sure he’ll love that.” I laughed a little and I finished off the last bit of liquid in the cup. Jane looked down at her watch and stood. “I should get back to my flat.” She said, grabbing her bag. She made her way towards the door, dodging papers, boxes, and photos scattered on the floor. She turned around and smiled. “If you need help with anything Sherlock, I’m here for you.” And she turned and walked out. The flat seemed to empty out a bit, though the rift seemed a bit smaller than it had been the morning before. I stood, leaving the dishes on the table, and walked into my room. Files were scattered all over the bed and floor. I picked up one that was about to fall off the desk and began to read it.


	28. Book VIII: Eastern Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder, I don't own Sherlock (or a majority of the plot that is about to come). BBC and Arthur Patrick Doyle own it. I am simply a humble messenger scraping up the ideas they left on the floor. I hope you enjoy this next one! :)

Janes POV 

It was hard to believe that walking out a door one day, led to walking through another, and another. And another. Walking out of the flat once had eventually led to walking back in, once temporary, the next permanent. It hadn’t taken much persuasion on Sherlocks part to get me to move back into the flat. After that it hadn’t taken Marcus long to realize that things had become much more complicated and thus end what some might have called a relationship. After that, it hadn’t taken long for the balance between cases and my job to clash, ending in a mostly weekend and night job while the days were spent running around London. After that, it didn’t take long for the run-ins with Serial Killers, Murderers, Adulterers, and every other kind of scrum to show up in the flat. It was almost amazing how much things had changed and somehow never changed at all. Walking through that door had led to walking through this one. It was much less flattering than the others. Ending with breaking into a prison to find a long lost sister, who was probably better off lost, and now was not as defenseless as was previously convinced. Standing in a bright concrete cell was not where I thought that door would lead, though none of the doors lead anywhere that was very comfortable. Sherlock stood pacing the floor of the cell. The little girl's voice crackled over the speaker in the room before abruptly being cut off. The Governor was laying on the floor, his mind jumbled. Eurus popped up on the screen, instructing us. She reminded me of someone. Someone lost, confused, and extremely vengeful. I saw Sherlock reflected in her and Eurus reflected back. I forced myself to calm my nerves when the Governor's wife popped up on the screen. The Governor stood and looked between us and the screen. 

“That's my wife. That’s my wife.” He turned to look at me. “That’s my wife.” Eurus turned back towards us, the large black back of the chair obscuring his wife from our view. 

“There’s a gun in the hatch,” Eurus explained. Sherlock moved over to the hatch and picked up the gun. “Choose either Mycroft or Jane to shoot him. If not, I’ll shoot his wife.” Sherlock's face paled a little and he turned as if to shoot the Governor himself. “No, no Sherlock. It can’t be you or it won’t count.” Count, almost as if it was a game. Sherlock glanced in my direction before walking over to Mycroft. I couldn’t help but feel relieved. He held the gun out to him and Mycroft took a step back, his face just as pale as the white lights in the cell. 

“I can’t.” He said, readjusting his shoulders. “I won’t do it. I won’t have innocent blood on my hands.” Sherlock turned to face me and I stared at him, silently begging him not to make me take another life. He extended the gun towards me. I shifted foot to foot before taking it. The familiar grooves of the gun fitting into my palm. This was my gun. 

“That’s right, save the hard work for the woman Sherlock.” Eurus said with a smile. The Governor pleaded with me. 

“What’s your name?” I choked out, it’s always another name. 

“David.” He told me, his face tense. 

“You’re doing a brave thing.” I said, trying to convince myself I was doing the same. I brought the gun up but couldn’t bear to pull the trigger. I felt shaky though my hands were unnaturally sure. My notebook, all the lives I took written inside. Did it really need another name? I lowered the gun and little and prompted him to kneel. I could do it. I was more than this. More than what? He knelt and I pressed the gun to his head. How many times had I done this? How many times had someone done this to me? Forced into a kneeling position and the death breaking down the back of your neck. I closed my eyes, willing myself to pull the trigger. I couldn’t. Not again. Too many lives. Too many innocents. My record was already black enough. I lowered the gun, tears threatening to block out my vision. “I can’t” I said, lowering the gun to my side. I cast a glance at Sherlock, whose face once again was unreadable. The Governor snatched the gun from my hand and pressed it under his neck. A similar picture flashed through my mind and I reached forward to take it from him, yelling. 

“Goodbye.” He said and pulled the trigger. Blood spattered all around the cell. The corner of the cell covered in it. I flinched, looking down at my shoes, little flecks of blood staining my pants. Mycroft retched in the other corner, not being able to stand the look of the body. I stared at it. The blood. Sherlock stepped forward. 

“He’s dead.” He told Eurus who was looking expectantly at us. 

“Yes, unfortunately, suicide wasn’t one of the options.” She said, turning. The chair once again obscured our vision and the sound of a shotgun rang out through the screen. 

“No!” I yelled, running a hand through my hair, another flinch. Another name. “She was innocent!” I turned, unable to look at either body and not sure if I would be able to stomach it. 

“You see Sherlock, you can observe the moral code. Your little friend Jane chose not to add another name to her little ledger, and in the end, she’ll add two.” She said with a sickening smile. “In the end, your moral code gets you nothing. Now, pick up the gun, you’ll need it later.” She instructed, a door sliding open behind us. Sherlock walked over and picked up the gun, wiping some blood off of it. Mycroft, who had taken on a shade of green, followed us into the next room. The halls were dark and only led one way. Another door, leading to another horror. The next rooms walls were coated in a splotchy red paint. Sherlock turned to Mycroft. 

“So what were her ‘treats’” He asked. 

“She had valuable information for the British Government, in response, she got treats. She’s quite clever…” Mycroft said 

“I’m starting to think you’re not.” He stated, casting a glance in Mycroft's direction. Static came back over the intercom and the little girl's voice once again came over the screen. 

“Hello? Hello? Are you still there?” She cried. 

“Yes, yes. I’m sorry. Tell me, outside, is it day or night?” Sherlock asked, quickly taking advantage of the time he had to talk with her. The girl hesitated, 

“Night. My mother, she won’t wake up, no one will.” She said, 

“Where are you coming from?” 

“My Nans” 

“Where are you going?” 

“Home. I just want to go home.” She sniveled and her voice cut off. Eurus comes back on the screen in the room and I suppressed a sneer. 

“Now, there's an envelope on the table and a case that was unsolved by all but me. A man was shot from a distance of 300 meters, the three suspects were three brothers. He was shot with this rifle” She said as Sherlock reached up to take the gun. “So, which brother? Use your friends Sherlock, I want to see how you interact with others.” Sherlock looked up at the screen before turning the gun to Mycroft. 

“Are you asking me to make myself useful?” He asked. “Because I will not be manipulated this way.” Sherlock turned to me and handed my the rifle. It was heavy and I bounced it a little, gauging weight. 

“Oh.” I said, holding the heavy gun in my hands. “I’ve seen one before, Buffalo gun. Heavy drawback.” I handed the gun back to Sherlock, feeling a weird sense of accomplishment that I was being of better use than Mycroft. 

“Are we meant to compete?” Mycroft said, jabbing at me. I turned to him and pointed a finger at him, anger of the situation flaring and finding a new target. 

“We’re trying to solve a case and help a scared little girl on a plane not die. So yes Mycroft, if you want it to be a competition we can compete. But you better know that I will do anything I can do to keep a passenger plane from falling out of the sky. Because, this, this is war. And being a soldier means that you put yourself in front of danger and stare it in the eye.” I growled, turning back to the pictures. Sherlock pointed to one of the brothers. 

“He wears glasses, the drawback from the gun would’ve broken them.” He said, tapping the picture. “No visible scarring or cuts meaning that it wasn’t him” He flipped the picture over, leaving the two other brothers. A loud snapping sound echoed and we all turned to the window. Three man popped up at the window, each with a name card around their necks. They struggled with their bonds and looked at us with bulging, pleading eyes. I looked down, rubbing my eyes with one hand. The three brothers. They were right there. 

“Condemn one Sherlock. Which one is the killer?” Eurus said. 

“There is no way you can get us to condemn a man.” Mycroft said, attempting to straighten his posture into somewhat of a commanding position. The speaker crackle and the voice of a scared girl gurgled over. 

“No one will wake up. You said you would help me. What do I do?” She rattled. 

“Alright, don’t panic,” Sherlock explained. “Can you go all the way to the front of the plane, are they asleep.” The answers was cut off and Sherlock was forced to turn back to the case in front of him. Panic began to rise and I shifted my weights and looked at the pictures of them. He pointed to another guy, rattling off facts about spray tan and glasses. Mycroft seemed to find his voice and added his own opinion to the matter. I nodded slightly when Sherlock glanced in my direction. We all turned to the window, the three men hanging over the deep waters of the ocean. 

“I condemn him.” Sherlock spoke, his voice unwavering. The two men beside him fell. It was like war all over again. Watching for afar and unable to do anything. They plunged out of view and into the sea. I flinched. 

“They were innocent!” I gasped, turning back to the screen. 

“But you see, Sherlock, Mycroft, and Jane dear. The difference between killing the innocent and the guilty. Let’s see if there’s a difference.” She said. The same jerking noise sounded and the last brother fell. “No. I don’t think so. Once again, the moral code changes nothing. I should thinks that’s five names now.” A door opened in the wall and we made our way towards it. 

“What is she referring to? The names.” Mycroft asked. I glanced over at Sherlock. 

“I have a notebook.” I told him, gulping down my rising panic. “I put all the names of the lives I’ve taken in it. To remember.” Mycroft went quiet and didn’t speak until we entered the next room. 

The room was identical to the last one minus the splatters of red paint. A polished wooden coffin was standing in the middle of the room, the lid taken off the top to reveal the white cushions inside. Sherlock beelined over to the coffin and began to deduce it. Whose coffin it might be. I watched him deduce, nodding as he estimated height, weight, gender, family life. Mycroft made his way over to the other end of the room and he turned it towards us. 

“Or, you could just look at the lid.” He said, facing the plaque towards us. Engraven in copper were the words “I Love You”. I gulped down some of the panic that rose through my throat again and looked over at Sherlock. First thinking of me, then to a friend that deserved so much better. 

“Molly Hooper.” He said. The T.V flashed and a video of Molly in her own flat showed up. She bustled around the kitchen, looking somewhat sick. Eurus’ voice echoed over the speakers again. 

“Little Molly Hooper. There are explosives rigged to explode in just two minutes, but it won’t if you can get dear Molly to say those words.” She told us. Sherlock pulled out his phone and called Molly. I watched as the phone on the counter buzzed. Molly glanced over at her phone, noticing as the name ‘Sherlock’ appeared on her screen. She didn’t touch it. I silently begged her to pick up her phone. 

‘Come on Molly, please.’ I begged inwardly. Sherlock's voice sounded equally haggard. 

“Why isn’t she picking up? What’s she doing?” He questioned. 

“Making tea.” Mycroft answered, oddly calm. The phone rang all the way out and Sherlock pulled the phone away from his ear, looking at it as if it was the reason that she didn’t answer. 

“Let’s try once more.” Eurus said. Sherlock brought the phone up to his ear, “Oh, and you can’t mention anything about the situation she’s in or it’s an automatic failure.” The phone rang, and Molly turned to the phone again. Her face looked pained but she picked it up. Her eyes looked shaded as if she hadn’t slept well. 

“Hey Sherlock, I’m not at the lab right now...” She started. 

“That doesn’t matter.” Sherlock interjected. “I just need you to say these words for me, ‘I love you’.” He instructed. 

“This isn’t funny Sherlock.” 

“I know. I know! Just Molly, please, it’s for a very important case.” Molly pulled the phone away from her ear, and went to hang up. 

“No! Molly! Molly! This is important!” 

“Please don’t” 

“Don’t what Molly?” He asked, exasperated. 

“Don’t ask me to say that.” She said, a slight tremble passing through her arm. Only a idiot couldn’t see how much Molly loved Sherlock. All the things that she’d done for him, all the things she’d sacrificed. 

“Please Molly.” 

“Don’t” 

“Why can’t you just say it Molly?!” Sherlock exclaimed. Molly began to break down, a couple tears falling onto the counter. 

“Because it’s true.” She whispered and Sherlock froze, the reality of the situation sinking in. “Bastard.” 

“Molly…” 

“You say it. Like you meant it.” 

Sherlock gulped a couple times and swallowed. 

“I… I love you.” He said. “I love you.” 

Molly put a hand up to her face, another tear falling onto the counter. A few second left. 

“I love you.” She whispered, and the phone hung up. The clock stopped and Molly sunk over the counter. Relief flushed through me, she was safe. A pang of sadness followed, knowing that Molly would never be able to forget. 

“I won. Eurus, I won.” Sherlock said, turning around. Sherlock was tense, his shoulders more tense than I’d ever seen, his face looked taunt and shallow. The game was too much for him, too much for me. 

“There were no bombs in the flat.” Eurus said. 

“I won.” he muttered. 

“Did you? Look at Molly. You’ve destroyed her.” She said. Molly was still hunched over the counter, her shoulders shaking and her tea left to burn. “As always, feelings let you down.” A door opened on the side. “When you’re ready.” 

Mycroft made his way to the door and I followed. I turned at the entrance and watched Sherlock. He placed the discarded lid on top of the coffin. Sealing whatever was left of love in the box. He paused, staring at the coffins and the words engraved on the top. His face contorted and he smashed the box with his arm. I sucked in a breath and watched him, letting my own pain and anger flow to him. He yelled and continued to smash the box. I watched him, remembering all the times I’d lashed out in anger after the war and after Sherlock was gone. It was like the rope you’d been tethered to had been severed but you weren’t willing to let go or give up. The gun laid disregarded on the floor, surrounded by the remains of the coffin. After a moment, I walked over and picked it up. I made my way over to Sherlock, who was sitting on the floor breathing heavily. I reached a hand out to help him up. 

“Come on Sherlock.” I said. He looked up. A lot of the looks I got were vacant, unseeing. But he seemed to see, and for once, I didn’t mind if he deduced me. He grabbed my hand and I helped him up, handing him the all to familiar gun. Sherlock made his way to the door and I followed after him. The next room was different than the last, more circular and had three screens instead of one. 

“Now it’s time for you to choose, Sherlock.” Eurus said. “Brother dear, or Dr. Watson. The next game is only designed for two players.” The audio clicked off and I couldn’t help but think that we hadn’t heard from the girl on the plane for a while. Mycroft stepped forward, 

“I’ll let you two say your goodbyes.” He said, “It’s quite unfortunate when you have to put down your pet.” Sherlock gave him an incredulous look. “You’re not actually thinking about it are you? The rest of this takes brains and cleverness. She’s always been another one of your distractions, another person for you to show off to and awe. You can get another one.” I opened my mouth to protest, but standing in the room with two of the most brilliant people in the world, I realized that this whole time I’d been scraping along, glimpsing the brilliance of a higher intelligence that I was incapable of achieving. I looked at Sherlock, the honesty of Mycroft's words punching small holes in my brave countenance. I always thought that I was going to die in the war, I hadn’t feared it. You couldn’t escape death forever, but standing here, it seemed like a pitiful way to die. 

“I can’t believe it.” Mycroft started again. “Come on Sherlock, get it over with. You were always the weak and disappointing one. You couldn’t even die right.” I took a step forward and squared my shoulders. 

“If it must be done.” I said, looking at Sherlock. He stared back at me, looking somewhat appalled. He turned the gun away. 

“It took five minutes. It took her five minutes to do this to us.” He said. 

“It could be worse.” I muttered under my breath, Sherlock turned his head back towards me and I realized that he’d heard me. Sherlock turned the gun towards Mycroft. 

“He’s just making it easier for me to turn the gun on him.” He said, looking squarely down the barrel. Mycroft smiled and straightened his suit as much as he could. 

“It always been Sherlock and Dr. Watson.” He stated. “Her gift. I let Eurus and Moriarty talk for five minutes. Unsupervised. Don’t shoot me in the head, I promised my brain to science.” 

“Five minutes.” Sherlock said, turning the gun on himself. “A man sacrificed himself five minutes ago. I guess it’s time to remember him.” He placed the gun under his chin. My mind seemed to dull, images of death threatening to block out reality. I couldn’t move and watched as he begun to count down. It’s a plan, it’s always a part of the plan. Eurus began screaming through the screen and a sharp prick hit me. I glanced down as the floor began to get closer and the lights began to dim.


	29. Book VIII: Eastern Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are A LOT of POV switches, you have been warned!! Thanks for reading!!

Sherlocks POV 

I woke laying on a table, the walls of a familiar cell surrounding me. I immediately registered that Jane wasn’t with me. Or Mycroft. I looked at the walls of the cell, pictures of me as a child pasted to the walls. The girl on the plane crackled over the speaked. 

“Why did you leave me? You keep telling me that you’re going to help me, but you keep leaving. AHH!!” She screamed, the plane shaking. I panicked. 

“Are the lights getting closer?” I asked, looking at all the pictures on the wall. 

“I think, there’s…” And it cut off. 

“Sherlock!! Sherlock!!” I whipped around, Jane’s voice now echoing over the speakers. I couldn’t help but feel relieved that she was alive. 

“Jane!” I exclaimed, circling the room again looking at the pictures. 

Janes POV 

The room was dark, and I waved my hand in front of myself my vision slowly clearing. 

“Jane!” Sherlock exclaimed, “Where are you?” I looked around and went to take a step before I realized there was water. 

“Umm. I don’t know. There’s about a foot of water in here though, I lifted my foot up and felt a tug. “My feet are chained to the bottom I think.” I ran my hand around the bottom of the floor, mentally categorizing what I was feeling. “Stone… and…” I felt something hauntingly familiar, the slim smoothness of bones. “Bones.”


	30. Book VIII: Eastern Wind

Sherlocks POV 

I walked back over to the table and picked up the bowl that had been stowed underneath. Jane’s last words over the speaker, bones. The girl on the airplane then replaced Jane’s voice. 

“Go to the front of the plane.” I instructed. “Do you see anything that looks like a break, or emergency button ot maybe a radio?” Panicking a little 

“No.” She trembled 

“Okay, we’re going to have land this ourselves.” I told her. 

“I’m in a well, Sherlock. Sherlock? There’s more, I found…..” Jane said, suddenly switching. A slight breeze blew on my neck and I turned. The pictures on the wall slightly stirred and walked over to the north wall. I put a slight bit of pressure on it and the walls fell, revealing the burned remains of my childhood home. 

“You see Sherlock, we’re going full circle. From where you began to where end.” Eurus said, and I walked purposefully into the house. In the foyer by the stairs, a screen was set up and Eurus’ face appeared. 

“Have you figured it out Sherlock?” She asked. 

“No.” I said. 

“Awww, Sherlock. Finally found the one case you couldn’t solve. The one buried in your own past.” She said, she began to sing the song she sung when we were children. 

“Yes! I know! I followed the instructions to the letter! I tried everything but I never found Redbeard!” I said, frustrated. A girl was about to die and I had no idea where Jane was or what kind of danger she was in. 

“The waters coming in.” Eurus said. 

“Sherlock!!” Jane yelled. 

“I know! I know!” I yelled. 

“The waters coming in Sherlock!! And the bones….” She said. 

Eurus began talking again. “What were Dad’s allergies Sherlock? What would he never let you have?” She asked, the pieces clicking together. A dog. “You never had a dog Sherlock. You had a best friend.” I began to flash back, repressed memories coming to the surface. 

“Victor Trevor. We used to play pirates. I was yellowbeard and he was…” 

“Redbeard, Sherlock. Redbeard.” Eurus said, singing her song. “You see the tie Sherlock, of all your dreams and memories, you’ve always been afraid of deep water, and I’m afraid it’s getting deeper. 

“You killed my best friend.” I whispered. 

“I never had a best friend.” She said, tears threatening her eyes. “I had no one.” She started singing the song again and some more of the facts clicked together. I ran out the door and back around the side of the house where some graves were. I looked at the dates, the names, forming a code in my mind. A code that gave way to a plea for help. Pushing all the pieces together, I ran back into the house. Up the old, burnt stairs. Past Mycroft's room, past my room, and into Eurus’. 

Janes POV 

Water began to pour into the well, splashing on my head, immediately soaking my clothes. I cast away the skull, trying to pretend that I’d never found it in the first place. The water was rising and rising, as did my panic. I turned to the slick stone walls and tried to look for a way to climb. After stepping onto a stone, the chains yanked me back, pulling me back into the murky water. I gasped and thrashed, trying to stand as the water got higher and higher. 

“Sherlock!” I yelled, spitting out water. No response. I remembered then all the names Jim Wilson, David Murray, Jaydon Bennet, Harrison Jacks, Kelly Thompson, Marcus Thompson, Haven Thompson, Davis Mayson, Jason Dupt. The list went on and I could see in fresh ink, Sherlock Holmes. Then Governor David Haps and his wife. I struggled one more time, the water pulling at my chin as I fought to keep above the water but I kept being dragged down. A bright light flashed, and then began to dim. 

Another POV The ladder was dropped down into the well, and the man with dark hair immediately slid down into it. A woman who was physically struggling to stay afloat yelled to him. 

“Thank heavens!!” She yelled. He waded through the thick water and grabbed onto her arm, giving her support. He told her something and she pointed down into the water. He reached down into the water and dismantled something. He then guided her over to the ladder. She started up a couple of rungs before she turned back to him. Turning back to him, she pointed to one of the corners and told him something. He began to follow her up the ladder only stopping to look down into the water where she’d pointed.


	31. Book VIII: Eastern Wind

Janes POV 

After talking to Lestrade who was very, very confused, we watched as they took Eurus, who now looked more tired than malicious. They put her into a cop car and I realized that Sherlock was staring. He walked over to the house, and I followed. Large boards were laying in the grass, the police scanning over them. Sherlock made his way over to the door and stopped, staring into the open door. He stepped inside disappeared around the corner. I hesitated. Sherlock never told me anything about his childhood, never anything about his past. I didn’t even know about this house. Really, I hardly knew anything about Sherlock besides the fact that I would follow him just about anywhere. Privacy was privacy. I turned to leave when Sherlock appeared at the door again. 

“Are you coming?” He asked. 

“I thought you might want some alone time.” I told him. 

“Come on.” He said, disappeared back into the house. I took a step forward and put a hand on the door, walking into the house. My hand left a red print through the dust on the door. 

Later, we walked into the flat, with its scorched walls and demolished flooring. We walked into the living room, looking through the broken windows into the road outside. Sherlock walked over and propped up his chair, I turned to mine, covered in soot and grime, and flipped it up as we began to put the flat to rights. 

Sherlocks POV 

I walked into the flat, it’s floors refurbished and the wall paper still not looking worn. I set my violin case on the desk which for once wasn’t covered in papers. Jane was sitting in her chair, a blanket on her lap and a book in her hand. I walked over and sat down, waiting for her oncoming questions. They didn’t come. A barely eaten plate was situated on the table, a cold cup sitting next to it. I watched as her eyes scanned one page, then would go back and read the same page. She wasn’t actually reading, or at least she was trying, re-reading the same pages over and over not processing much of anything. Though she told me not to deduce her, she seems oddly vulnerable. Circles under the eyes, limited sleep caused by large amounts of stress. She hair was in messy bun on the top of her head, hairs falling out to fan the back of her neck. Tired, possibly not feeling well. Messy clothing meaning careless, relaxed. Definitely not feeling well. The uneaten plate of food and cup of cold tea, no appetite because of stress or being shaken. I looked out the window and out into the street where the street lamps had started to turn on. I stood and turned back Jane, 

“I’m going to bed.” I said. She looked up from her book and nodded before looking over to her plate. She wants to eat, but can’t bring herself to have the appetite. She stood and took the plate into the kitchen, scraping the food into a container of the trash can. I walked into my room and heard the stairs overhead creak as Jane made her way into her room. I sat on my head and ran a hand through my hair. How was I ever going to apologise for what Eurus did? How was I supposed to help her? I remembered the time when I watched her pull off her shoes and tried to apologize. 

“I’m used to it.” She’d said. “Thank you, Sherlock.” 

“For what?” 

“For everything.” 

After that I’d abandoned her. If anyone should be thanked, it shouldn’t be me.


	32. Finally

Jane’s POV- 

It felt strange, how much I had thought things had changed and how they continued to. One might have thought that after The Final Problem and after Eurus, we might have retired. That was not the case. It seemed that in the weeks that came after, the cases slowed, not showing up at all. In those days, one could hear Sherlock’s pacing and the sound of another bullet lodging into our wall from outside. Then, once the world had seemed to come to terms with what had happened, the cases came in again. Lestrade stopped in every once and awhile, handing off cases that the current Detective Fair deemed unworthy of solving or was deemed unworthy to solve. Of course, none of them were above a decent four, and I found myself one day, bored. I slumped down into my chair, throwing the paper onto the table. 

“Gosh. We haven’t had a good case in days.” I muttered, slouching down farther. Sherlock paused in his pacing and turned. 

“Exactly!!” He said, pacing faster. I picked at a string on the chair and stood up, cracking my back. “Over the past four days, three police cars have driven by and Lestrade still hasn’t come to us with a case. I’m incredibly…” 

“Bored.”I finished for him, I walked over to the door and slipped on a pair of shoes. “Me too, now if you want to stop wearing holes in the carpet, you can accompany me on a walk.” I said. Sherlock paused for a moment to think and turned into his room, grabbing his coat and shoes. I stepped out the door and walked down the steps, pausing for a moment as Sherlock stopped to close the door behind him. “So Sherlock,” I said, looking out into the street. “Left or right?” 

“Mycroft's got more cameras to the north. Go left.” He said, and we started down the road. Eventually, we found a small park. Adults walked with either screaming or hyper children down the paved paths into a wooded garden area. I paused to look around. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been over here before.” I said, looking at the vast arrangements of flowers and shrubbery. 

“My mother funded this park and makes sure it is taken care of. I thought you would appreciate it.” Sherlock said. I cast him a sideways glance, thinking that there was maybe a little bit more to the story than that but didn’t push it. The wind began to kick up and a sound soon came wailing over the sounds of nature. Sherlock turned, facing the road. 

“Definitely a police car.” He said. 

“I’d say two, wait… three.” I responded. Another wail joined the cry. 

“And an ambulance.” Sherlock added, we smiled at each other and took off down the path while I followed at his heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to thank everyone for reading and sticking by me (especially my editing crew). I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I loved writing it. If you didn't realize, yeah, this is the end and I hope you're satisfied. It took me many, many tries to get the ending right. Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome and appreciated! I love you all!!
> 
> Hannah Merp


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